Are you not the one fretting over rotted wood and smashed glasses?
[ He hefts Viktor easily enough, only the faintest bit of magical assistance to manage the motion and then once he's settled on his feet, steps back a touch to give Viktor space to determine where best to plant.
He gives Del a lingering, dubious look but when the bird doesn't seem interested in his bag he follows after Viktor, toeing at the bald ground. ]
For longevity, you would need to alter the soil first. It has been a while, but you may wish for better drainage. To manage that, you've two options. The first option is to simply attempt to change half of the clay-like soil to gravel. The second is to attempt to introduce gravel into the substrate itself, forcibly aerating the soil as you do.
Not over rotted wood and smashed glass, but the stories lost with them.
[ Viktor rests his palm over the ground and, tentative, cautious, focuses on the earth until the make of it comes into focus. Not a tangle, but orderly lines of muted gold - the earth, the stone - interwoven with bursts of gleaming chaos, colorful little anomalies that, once upon a time, would have been the cause of a fearsome headache. Now, with the beginnings of understanding, with the skill to focus, they simply glint, lovely, and Viktor can begin to understand exactly why Aepymetes was so desperately in love with his weave. ]
And you. To lose that which you'd so carefully collected. [ A pause, his head lists to get another view of the threads beneath him. ] Gravel, I think I can manage. 'Tis quite saturated with Light, here, still. [ He tips a grin in Emet-Selch's direction. ] Do you mind sh-shiny grapes?
[ Sometimes, he can brush away Viktor's empathy and not think about it, but other times it catches him and he wants to squirm underneath the heat and weight of Viktor's love for the most inconsequential things. He hadn't thought to grieve - they weren't old in the same way the belongings of the ancients were. They were his collection, and he collected so much over time he had accepted there would be necessary casualties of some kind. ]
Focus on the gravel, not on me. [ He drops into a crouch next to Viktor, peering at his hands and then after a beat of hesitation, looking properly. Viktor glows so brightly he thinks he ought to have accepted the offer of a hat, earlier. ]
So long as they are edible, I care not. Gravel to aerate the soil, and then - prepare your seeds and I will return shortly.
[ He does not care to make them attempt to make manure for fertilizing; rather than do that he rips a portal open carelessly and steps back onto the farm from earlier, digging in a barn shed until he comes out with a half-full bag, dropping it upon the ground. ]
Once you've tended the ground, then you may plant. 'Tis not so different from coaxing seed to flower in the Underworld; it may even be easier. The difficulty is not putting too much of your own aether to induce flowering and speed the process to fruiting. The moment you feel a drain on your aether, you will reach out to me and borrow my own. Do you understand?
[ It does not quite bother him, being brushed off as such. A faint sting, easily set aside. It is as Emet-Selch had said, there must be a balance. A sun and a moon, light for the dark. One to think ever of the next great and harrowing step, the other to remember that even the smallest things may have been important to someone. If he is silly for it, he is silly.
Without tools, he relies on spellwork to do his planting. Earth is easy enough to move for one practiced in White Magic, a swipe of his hand does the trick. For gravel, he finds the exact thread that changes dirt to rock, pins it in place with care, and then applies the stones to the ground the way he might have applied the same to the face of some fiend years ago - shotgun blasted. That should sufficiently aerate.
A layer of soil over that, then the process is repeated twice more, making layers.
When Emet-Selch returns, Viktor is clutching a handful of seeds between his palms. His body's preference for stillness makes it difficult to stir them from their slumber, and he can't help but wonder whether his own aether will negatively affect the taste, but eventually, he settles on planting. ]
Aye. Aye. No over-d-doing it. I am not a ch-child. [ He frowns as he sets the seeds into the earth, and hasn't quite wiped the look away when he glances back up. ] That farm I glimpsed- on the Source? 'Twas safe? No Terminus creatures?
[ It is not the first time being awkward about having empathy extended to him has made a situation difficult and it will not be the last. That does not eliminate the flicker of guilt for trying to dismiss it so quickly. They were intended to share one day with Aepymetes and Hythlodaeus. They will not be able to do so, but a handful of them shared with Viktor is sufficient. He did not spend years trying to make the wine; all he did was purchase the bottles.
Ridiculous. He shouldn't feel so irritated when Viktor has obviously suggested this with intent; of course he'd threaten to ruin it. ]
Of course not.
[ Before that sour look can curdle fully onto his face, Emet-Selch finds himself distracted with the question, with the simple surprise of finding somewhere seemingly untouched by disaster. ]
None at all. I searched while I was availing myself of their cellars, but could find nothing. My suspicion is they either evacuated with the other swathes of farmers in one of the initial waves, or- [ his shoulder rises and falls in a shrug ] The animals were well-kept. Rain kept the troughs full, their fields were flourishing. One would never know what has occurred to look at it.
[ Crouching, he presses a hand against the ground and hums when he finds the ground sufficient as if he expected anything else. ]
The difficulty after fruiting is ensuring you push to ripeness, not to a point where they rot on the vine. Were I you, I would attempt to grow as many plants as possible, and then attempt to coax them to fruit one by one.
on my hands and knees begging myself to write shorter tags christ fdsjafd i'm so sorry
[ The furrow of Viktor's brow smooths with surprise, relief. Even on the Source, life persists just as it ever had, wherever it can. It should not be so shocking. Gardens, well planted, will thrive even if left unattended, growing wild in ways you never expect.
And as to the farm's former human residents - he chooses to believe that they were among those rescued, folk who will be happy to see their flocks well when they eventually return. Who will not struggle to feed themselves as they reacclimate to their own home, who might share a harvest with neighbors, with friends they'd made amidst all this harship.
That anyone could look upon his star, glimpse these pockets of things doing and being in spite of everything, and still find this existence wanting is so utterly baffling. ]
What a happy surprise, mm? [ He allows a smile while Emet-Selch tests his work. It is more than sufficient, he knows - a master botanist would not settle for less - and cannot help but snicker at that considering hum. ] Perhaps there are many such hidden gems left to find back home.
[ He nods along to Emet-Selch's advice he flattens his palms against the earth. Easy to find the seeds amidst the dirt. Little dots of potential, not quite yet kinetic, there humming against his senses.
He shuts his eyes, focuses, finding the thread of one. It is almost nothing to dig metaphorical fingers into the make of that first seed, and just as Aepymetes had pulled his own soul apart to read its story, so too, now, does Viktor unravel thread. Except here, rather than merely read, he takes that spark of potential and guides it up the line.
Roots unfurl, life emerges, pushing up through the earth into sprouts. Viktor lifts his palms, and the growth follows, little firework bursts of green and brown as stem turns to bark and leaves explode along its length. He repeats the process with two more plants, then pauses to fashion stakes for them out of aether repurposed from nearby excess earth. Those, he sets by hand, and resumes growing as he guides each vine upon its support.
He is silent through the whole process, still not quite skilled enough to make conversation as he wades half his consciousness into the weave to Create most effectively. And also, simply enjoying the act of Making far too much to split his attention. It is, he thinks, not unlike being devoured by the work of embroidery. Each movement, done with care, with intention, requiring focus, but so rhythmic as to become rote.
Plants grow, winding upward, and finally, Viktor arrives at the most exciting part: fruit. He spares Emet-selch a beaming smile before he proceeds, proud of the work he's done, delighting in the familiar color of Lominsan grape vines, lusciously dark when set against Lakeland's sea of pale violet.
How impressively easy, how pleasing it is to grow, watching seeds become something lush and eager to be coaxed to fruiting. It is work he feels almost meant for in a strange way. Viktor hardly notices how heavy his limbs become as he feeds his own aether into the first plant, guiding buds to flower, then flowers to clusters of fruit. Larger, larger, larger.
As he lets the plant gorge itself, his mind wanders. There is, he thinks, a hopefully not-too-distant future where he tends a garden, one he can call his. There, Emet-Selch sits at a table, sips his lunchtime tea, watching him work as he complains about some new and complicated matter Sharlayan has set in their lap. Some bit of business that will call the two of them to the far reaches of their star once more.
Their future, Viktor thinks, a little dizzy.
He has been acquainted with his limits before. Near more times than can be counted, in fact. They are old friends at this point, he and his breaking point, met briefly before he is wrenched back, ever pulled to heel by Hydaelyn.
Except, Hydaelyn isn't here anymore.
Clumps of green ripen to wisteria colors cast with a silver sheen as they continue to swell. And that is where Viktor finds his limit, in the wrongness of the color, in the glow. Time seems to slow, then, pulled out infinite, like the moments captured between Nabriales's palms. Viktor turns to Emet-Selch, but the action takes more effort than he expects. He extends a hand, palm open, meaning to grasp for the greater pool of aether, except-
Except the hungry plant he's fostered has him. And it is not he who guides growth, but the plant that pulls him along. Viktor feels himself go thin as the grape vine siphons him nearly dry. The world spins and hums, vibrant and beautiful, an explosive riot of colors as everything around him becomes thread, more gleaming and gorgeous than dragon fire, more blinding than a Warden's Light. ]
I feel w-weak.
[ His spool reaches its end. His arm, too heavy to lift, falls limp to his side once more as the plant before him erupts with monstrous new growth. There is no bright burst, no horrible noise or calamity. Viktor simply falls, the vines sprawling out to embrace him, twining over legs and arms, warm and familiar - his own aether, made green, embracing him, as twilight fades to dark. ]
[ He finds himself consistently surprised; maybe he should not be at this point. How many times does Viktor need to prove himself better than what Emet-Selch anticipates for him to finally raise the bar? Embarrassing. At least Viktor does not know.
While he busies himself with growing from seed, Emet-Selch sets about making ready to eat, his stomach reminding him that it has been since early morning when he'd haphazardly made eggs and piled them atop toast and then forgotten to eat half of it before getting distracted. Plates. Cutlery. Little knives for cheese because while they could use their existing cutlery, Emet-Selch sees no need to abide savagery when he's perfectly capable of creating a set that will suffice.
It is, he thinks, a little odd to be in the instructor's seat in this capacity. An unthinkable amount of years ago he'd had at least some passing interaction with youths in his capacity as Emet-Selch, be they with the Word of various other seats or a child of one of them. He does not think himself particularly adept with children, but he's passable enough. To teach an adult, over-powered and under-educated in his abilities, is entirely different. With a child, the most one might expect is a creature from a nightmare coming to life. Easy enough to dispose of, and the nightmares of children were not filled with the knowledge of actual horrors. Viktor has seen plenty of horror from which to draw.
Any of his lessons are ones he must adjust and even then, he is not certain how much is actually useful and how much simply the nudge in the right direction is all that must occur, because the soul remembers. He'd taken to every bit Emet-Selch introduced with an ease and familiarity that ached at points when contrasted with the manual labor performed in the kitchens and in the apothecary. How much more they could be, if they just knew.
If Emet-Selch taught them. If they revealed the nature of the world and how it was, and did not make evident how it was Emet-Selch came to know these abilities well enough to teach them.
A handful of yalms away, grape vines crawl across the ground and up their stakes, and Emet-Selch hides a smile despite himself, pleased. Even if they're terrible, the very fact that grapes sprouted and grew is enough. The barrier he maintains between them always feels as if it gets a bit hot when one of them uses their abilities; he doesn't know how else to describe it, even if it is an intangible heat, almost indistinguishable from holding back the full force and brightness of Viktor's soul. The barrier keeping them separate is necessary for so many reasons, one most of all that he does not wish to snuff all of that light and warmth out accidentally.
There's the briefest moment where he thinks Viktor has been awfully quiet longer than he expects which is about when he hears the other man utter an observation with no panic, no fear whatsoever. Viktor falls, a marionette with its strings cut and Emet-Selch presses his lips into a thin line, rising what feels like through sludge. Painfully slow, he makes his way over to where Viktor lies crumpled in front of his grapes.
He's raised the barrier between them ilms for bits and pieces of context, but never dared to do more than the tiniest corner. Too much and he runs the risks he worries about, but he has had little reason to lift them aside from that. This, he thinks with grim amusement, is reason enough. The warmth behind the barrier has always felt like sitting on the other side of a sunny window. The chill is pronounced, seeping through to his bones, making the process of prying his gloves off with his teeth that much more arduous.
One hand nudges itself beneath the nape of his neck, tilting his head up, angling fingers to his pulse while he plants the other atop Viktor's chest, nudging aside cloth to reach skin and flattening his hand once he does. Replenishing aether is not wholly unfamiliar, even if he is a bit unpracticed. He would rather it weren't familiar at all, but workers exhausting themselves - stars, even Hythlodaeus pouring a little too much of himself into a concept to test it and refusing to ask Emet-Selch despite him being there - ]
Is it so hard to listen to me when I speak? [ Despite the sharp edge to his tone, his touch is gentle. When he feeds his own aether into Viktor, following the a guide thread to the rest of the weave, he is gentle. It is not an ocean of force shoving aether back into him, forcibly resuscitating him. Like coaxing the embers of a flame to relight, adding small kindling first and only graduating to larger pieces once he's certain he won't smother the flames. Slowly, the warmth comes back, slowly his vision fills with gold once again and he's never been so glad to look at something and feel his eyes ache a little. Whether or not Viktor can hear him as he works, Emet-Selch complains. ] One plant's fruit at a time. One. Not the whole damned grove, not the largest possible grapes that one could conceivably force a vine to bear. One. And to warn me. I was quite clear on that point as well, you know.
[ For the briefest of moments, Viktor is both himself and everything else, a seamless portion of the greater weave. How terrified he'd ever been of the prospect, of the looming threat he'd always felt, that he might fade into all around him. But it is lovely, in that blink, to feel no fear or hurt, to sense all the ways he is part of all around him, to know, intimately, the whole of the weave. He is embraced. He is pulled apart. Welcomed into it all without urgency.
There is a snag.
Just as the last of himself starts to slip, it catches. Tries to get away, but can't. Curled on something offered, a gift he cannot - would not ever - refuse, no matter how badly it burns. Not with heat, he realizes, waking up enough to recall that there is a difference, but cold, impossibly cutting. Though the weave beckons him, calling him to be everything and nothing, the last scraps of Viktor wind themselves around that familiar knife's edge, slow, coiling, consuming what's been given. Ice becomes fuel, becomes flame, becomes Light, as Viktor accepts an offered anchor, and all the prickling, painful nourishment that comes with it - drinks like a man parched.
Excruciating seconds of stillness tick by, Viktor motionless, a cold and empty shell in Emet-Selch's arms. By impossibly slow measures, he warms, the glimmer of him glowing as it is fed. His senses return. Before he can move, before he can breathe, he can hear, he can feel, he can think. Time has meaning, again - how long has he been out? He gains a sense of his body - did Emet-Selch take him somewhere else? Why is it so loud? A din of worry, scraps of terror and panic, underlain beneath the ever steady sound of Emet-Selch's voice.
Stop fussing, he wants to say, but can't until he draws breath. And so, he does that next. Then movement. Viktor opens one eye, just a crack, and is surprised to find himself surrounded by green. Green and nothing else, save Emet-Selch.
There, he realizes, the storm of fear not a crowd. The veil between them has been lifted, and the cacophony is that one busy, busy mind, worrying over him. Viktor lifts his hand, fighting pins and needles, the press his palm to Emet-Selch's cheek. He is so much warmer than his aether; full of life. Slow, shaking, Viktor shifts to press against the trunk of Emet-Selch's body, hungry for warmth. ]
I a-apologize. [ He says, and without the veil, the rest spills through.
No use apologizing when such things will happen again. But you are sorry, aren't you? Sorry for hurting, for disappointing, disappearing, doubting. Distracted by a future not yet won. Fool. Useless. Was that death? Or more than death? Is it dying to join the weave? Not so bad. Perhaps you can grasp the feeling again, but- Would he have mourned us? Would he have fallen? No. No. No. Too much work to do. Useless thoughts. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. We are here and made whole by - familiar, like the Dark that dimmed our incandescence when Light broke - our love.
Viktor shuts his eyes again as tears gather in his lashes. The gratitude he feels is near overwhelming, second only to the sense of being knit up wholly in the make of Hades, aether married, tangled, no veil between them, and yet still allowed to be himself. A glint of gold set against dark indigo. Surrounded, safe.
His throat is dry. How does he even begin to convey these feelings? He hasn't the words, and so, he simply says, ] Are they p-pretty, at least? My grapes?
[ He has to remind himself not to grip Viktor too tightly, forcibly relaxing his grip on the other man's limp form, jaw clenched so tightly his teeth squeak against each other. Both hands on Viktor, slowly negotiating their jumbled position into something marginally more comfortable, knees bent beneath himself, tugging Viktor closer when he finally starts to respond, to stir.
( Selfish boy, the voice says, but there's no heat to it, just disappointment. Shame curdles in him all the same; he'd prefer the anger, but the disappointment is worse, several times over. The body lies on the ground between them, not alive, not returned to the Underworld, but in a horrible middle ground. His fault. Our duty is not to heal, to save. Leave that work to others. We do not interfere, we do not upset the careful balance we maintain. If someone passes, our duty is to guide, not to grasp them with both hands and- )
He uses both hands to pull Viktor back, in flagrant denial of that rule. Winds the gold thread of Viktor's being around his palms like a leash no matter how badly it digs into his skin, forcibly making himself an anchor until Viktor warms by ilms. He wishes sometimes that the nature of his powers meant he gave warmth instead; how many times did he come home from working one magic or another and when greeting either of his partners, unintentionally wrested a jump from them as cold hands met their much warmer skin? Death was not warmth and life, though and he had long since missed the chance to throw his lot in with a different Seat, even if he'd wanted to.
Viktor inhales, finally, and the action is a reminder that so too must Emet-Selch. He draws in a shuddering breath of cool, crisp air, tastes green from the crushed grass, the growth of life around them and waits for a second breath, a third.
( Ow? More of a question than an actual declaration, followed by the sound of an impact- a hand on a chest, like smacking a table. This time, the familiar voice is much more insistent, gasping out an, ow?! with much more vehemence, an edge of laughter to it as if he hadn't nearly worn himself threadbare, left Emet-Selch to walk into work and find naught but his corpse.
He continues feeding aether into Hythlodaeus, sloppy, hurried, panicked, until he realizes that Hythlodaeus is not complaining any longer, he's making quiet, pained noises where he has his face buried into Emet-Selch's shoulder. While he's alive enough to do that, and it's a relief, he's not strong enough to shove back any bit of Emet-Selch's aether, and has no propensity for manipulation and so it must have felt like being frozen from the inside out, even as he was wrested back from the Underworld. Hythlodaeus never holds the event against him; he was the one at fault, he'd say, but Emet-Selch doesn't dare forget the lesson. ) ]
I think the one who allowed himself to be distracted while you worked untested magics is the fool, if we will accuse anyone.
[ The gratitude registers and is discarded, not ungratefully but he cannot even think about Viktor being grateful when of course he would save Viktor. Were it within his means to manage, of course - it was his fault. He'd been too distracted thinking of frivolous other topics, fretting about a future they have not yet made manifest, lured into complacency with Viktor's easy acclimation to what once was. He would not make that mistake again. ]
No, they're hideous. Might as well be plums. [ He doesn't study them to judge; a glance is enough to note the fat fruit hanging from each vine and he's far more concerned with the sight of Viktor, far too still in his arms even if he can, at least, feel Viktor with far more surety than moments before.
Beneath him, his knee protests at the shared weight being put on it in such a position; gingerly, he stretches his leg out and settles Viktor more firmly against his chest, never once releasing the careful touch. Always, two hands on him. Greedy. Selfish. But victorious in a way he hadn't been the last time. He tries - the moment he feels that memory bubble up, his mind not kind enough to let the edges of that fade like so many other memories he'd desperately tried to keep - he tries to stifle it, to shove it down but the veil is lifted too far and he does not dare lower it, not until he is certain Viktor will be well.
( There's so much green around them. So much life, in spite of what has occurred. Lahabrea pushes through the destruction just a few yalms away and climbs over what he cannot push, far too exhausted to manage even unmaking the mess in front of them. Before the wave of magic hit, he'd felt the embers of countless souls those they could yet save and would once whatever this was passed. He had enough aether. He could manage. Maybe not all of them, but he could try.
The issue was not his capability - the issue was trying to get out from beneath whatever spellwork kept the three of them locked in place. When the barrier weakened, Emet-Selch shoved his own aether in to strengthen it as the storm raged harder around them, and did not think to analyze why he was so certain he tasted the clear rain-water of Venat's magics. Elidibus had tried to cross the barrier, pushing a hand out through it and they'd watched in mute horror as his hand had simply divided into neat slices of meat and bone at the wrist, and then the flesh divided further. Thinner. Thinner. By the time they'd shaken the horror off and Lahabrea'd wrested him back into the ostensible safety of the bubble of magic surrounding them, Elidibus' hand was gone with neat, surgical precision.
Fix that, Emet-Selch had snarled, because Elidibus was not dying or dead, and Elidibus could heal a hand, or Lahabrea could, but they could not coax embers to flame again and he was drained enough attempting to keep the barrier up. It hadn't mattered, in the end. Whatever magic had been wrought meant those lucky or unlucky enough to survive the immediate disaster were fractured, halved, halved, halved over and over until they were unrecognizable.
Halmarut's wretched vines that Hythlodaeus spent an entire evening litigating the exact leaf shape of, survive, along with the other botany projects scattered about in dust-and-rubble-covered containers.
The barrier drops, the immediate storm over and Emet-Selch sucks in a shuddering breath, nauseous at how much aether it took to weather the storm. They do not find any survivors, but he takes fleeting, bitter pleasure in wresting aether from the flood of green around them every time one of them is injured, and when out of plants and he sees what that storm had wrought of the embers that were unlucky enough to survive, well. The malformed creatures left over aren't aware enough to know they are being repurposed for fuel, anyway. The addition of their souls to the Underworld are insignificant. A pebble dropped into a lake.)
To save Viktor takes very little of his own aether reserves and does not necessitate he dip into any held elsewhere. Bit by bit, Viktor warms, and Emet-Selch starts to knit together the veil's anchor points once again, desperately trying to keep any memories or thoughts or impulses separate with middling levels of success. Only when he's certain does he stitch the last piece down, loose, just in case, and dares to look down at Viktor. The relief at the green surrounding them feels traitorous. ]
You will tell me if any bit of you feels - off.
screaming crying throwing up rolling around in this tag like a dog
Plums! [ Chirped over the crashing waves of painful memory as he gazes up into Emet-Selch's eyes, meeting that focused scowl with a faint, warm smile. Then, softer, still somehow full of swagger in spite of the weakness threaded through his voice, each syllable carefully enunciated. ] I was aiming for grapefruit.
[ Unbearable, to be seen in so thorough a way. Stumbling, soft, learning moments, before time had made titanium of his heart, each one laid out vivid for Viktor to see. So many little details, slipping through his fingers before he can properly grasp them - too fast even were he well, and certainly not now, exhausted as he is. Still, it's an invasion. One Emet-Selch makes no move to stop - allows, because far more pressing than the knife edge ache of his worst memories is Viktor's safety.
Viktor bears witness to Emet-Selch's past, mistakes, fears, regrets. Each hurt rings in his heart, sharp as if the pain were his own. He lifts his other hand, slow, with effort, to cradle Emet-Selch's face in both his palms, gently holding his gaze. He is something precious, deserving of care, a soft touch. Love. ]
You are not a fool. And there is no shame in th-thinking of the future. To exist in this time, to look ahead and still see potential? 'Tis a marvel. H-how we will win this. By embracing what good might come.
[ He can feel the curtain fall between them, and it is an impossibly lonely moment. Necessary, but isolating. He lets his hands fall to his chest, still feeling weak, and makes no move to shift away from Emet-Selch's embrace. ]
Aside from the ch-chill, I am... well enough. And will t-tell you if that changes. [ Emet-Selch's aether fills him, and it feels almost like Hydaelyn's blessing. Except- Hydaelyn's Light had been warm, and her love absent. Here, now, though Viktor's fingers are numb, every thread, every atom, hums with the confirmation that he is loved. Loved enough to be let in. Loved enough to break a cardinal rule. ] There is nothing in your past, nor in your mind n-now, that could change how I look at you. Do not fret much over a mometary p-parting of our veil.
[ The sharpness, the irritation is somewhat mitigated by the fact he has his face buried in Viktor's curls, only so careful of the lilies crowning him, inhaling. Grounding himself. Reassuring himself that Viktor might not be entirely hale, not entirely whole, but he is here.
Perhaps most frustrating is that when the veil settles again, Emet-Selch misses the sensation of it being lifted. Not enough to be foolish and lift it once more, but for a brief, raw moment, it had been nice to know and not wonder. To have certainty of purpose, of feeling, even if it were jumbled up with trains of thought, with wherever one or both of them tugged the thread binding them.
When Emet-Selch finally manages the effort of lifting his head, Viktor reaches up and presses slowly warming hands against his face; he'd like to think he's strong enough not to lean into them, to not need the reassurance that it brings. He isn't. Hands flex against Viktor where he holds, jaw clenching momentarily as he steadies himself. ]
Yes, well. I can marvel at a future that might come when you are not attempting to wield magic unsupervised.
[ Would that he could make his aether warmer, but it has, as far as he's aware, always been cold. He'd always chalked the feeling up to the affinity he has with the Underworld, never had cause to worry or wonder about why save for very rare situations. Neither had he worried that a peek behind the veil would make Viktor think less of him, or change how he looked at him. It should. Emet-Selch wouldn't feel better necessarily, but if Viktor looked at him and found nothing but horror at least Emet-Selch would understand that instead of being given grace he does not deserve. ]
You wretched- I do not care about the veil. I do not care about your horrifically oversized grapes. [ He stops short of following up with the obvious thing - person he does care about, making a disgruntled noise instead, chin settling atop Viktor's crown once more to stare out into the distance. After a beat, a searching hand finds Viktor's and envelops them, attempting to share at least a little more warmth. ]
Growing, creating - botany, specifically, is difficult in a way that animals, creatures are not. There is an end point for a creature. Arms, legs, head, torso. There is a finality with beings that does not exist with plant life. If given enough aether and free reign - [ He stops, sighing so heavily Viktor rises and falls with the motion. ] Well. I suppose we see what happens, don't we.
Edited (wait i don't think they say shut up. localization please) 2024-10-03 19:41 (UTC)
[ Emet-Selch commands him, but the expected childish petulance does not flicker to life in the hollow of Viktor's chest. And its absence, Viktor knows right away, has nothing to do with the lethargy that comes with being recently undeceased. Emet-Selch leans into the offered touch, clinging to him as though he might still drift away if he's let go for even a moment. It is not a fear Viktor shares.
Inside and out, he is embraced, tethered to the world by a man who once would not have hesitated to send his soul straight back to the Sea. Now, he gives of himself freely to keep Viktor whole, and what is offered is not given without thought, but with unspeakably dire intent. Hades, who knows well the cycle of souls, who has seen Azem live and die a thousand times, is unwilling to lose him.
Faced with such knowledge, how could Viktor ever allow himself to drift away? He does not deserve this sort of love, but it is all he has ever wanted. And now it is his, he will not let it go. He will guard this, them, with claws and teeth, with the full force of his will. They will not be easily separated again. ]
I know. I know. [ Soft, warm, apologetic. He hasn't better words, because there are none. Not in his lexicon. Not to adequately express regret for causing so much pain. Not to even begin to describe how ferociously Viktor loves him.
He welcomes the touch of warm hands with a sharp little sigh, guiltily loving the feel of being surrounded, consumed by him. Viktor shuts his eyes and listens as Emet-Selch seeks comfort in transforming something harrowing into a lesson - finds comfort there, himself, too, in the careful enunciation of each syllable. They are both alive, both well enough to get back to the familiar.
Viktor attempts to shift again. Odd, to have his body resist him, but he will not be denied this. Indulgent, he presses his face into Emet-Selch's chest just as the heavy sigh leaves him. Then, a thought occurs, almost funny, amid all this- ] What... do you suppose that m-means for my lilies, then?
[ Viktor is fine. He is fine. If Emet-Selch repeats that enough he thinks that he will internalize it, his heart will stop the frantic thudding, the adrenaline will taper off. Emet-Selch twines a little thread of aether around Viktor's soul all the same, a tiny, tight stitch between them to give him a better hold in the future if needed, and then bit by bit relaxes the grip on Viktor. ]
If you knew, you would not have -
[ No, not helpful. Emet-Selch trails off into a remarkably disgruntled noise and shares warmth instead, adjusting a touch when Viktor shifts in anticipation of him moving but he does not. His head drops against Emet-Selch's chest, the warmth of an exhale seeping through layers of clothes, making his skin prickle. ]
Your flowers? You, I suppose, are the garden. [ Gingerly he lifts a hand and plucks one of the lilies, smoothing rumpled hair down with his knuckles on the way to settle it atop Viktor's chest so they can both look at the bloom. ] They draw their aether from you, specifically, and run rampant I assume when you use aether best aspected toward their growth. The finality point for them exists because they are a creation, of a sort. They do not require actual earth, a stem, a root system; I would venture a guess that you act as such.
Mm. [ Viktor lights his fingers on a petal, thoughtful. He's well acquainted with his flowers, the aether that thrums within them. The familiar chill tingling beneath the velvety plant matter, stillness, rectification, waiting to be released. It is, he realizes, not all that different from Emet-Selch's aether in that regard. His flowers, briskly, midwinter cold. The chill of a morning under Menphina's moon. Hades's aether, the permeating cold of an early spring night, the night of the last snow. Almost funny, that Dark and Light would be so similar. Funny, but not surprising. ]
I am a garden. [ The words ring, familiar, and with a twitch of his ears, he places where he knows them. ] The- the creature I made. The one that r-resembled Aepymetes. He- it told me... I- we- it said "We are a garden." T-told me I need to look to the roots. [ Viktor examines the callouses on Emet-Selch's fingers curiously. Were those always there? ] He c-called me Hythlodaeus.
[ His tired gaze flicks up to study Emet-Selch's face, the lingering stern worry. What sort of explosion is occurring at this moment in that busy head? A thousand potentials and how to plan for them. ]
I will have a c-care. I promise. [ He gathers up one of Emet-Selch's hands in his own, brings his palm to his lips and presses a kiss in the center. A faint smile tugs across his lips. ] You haven't lost your appetite, have you?
The roots, then: the soul? He cannot think of what else Aepymetes-but-not would have meant. Better not to think of the creature at all, but neither of them have that luxury. ]
I see.
[ Viktor studies him, with a face that is his own, even if he's seen aspects of it on other shards, but with eyes- well. He tries to be satisfied at the idea that Viktor subconsciously remembered some element of what was and tries even harder not to be frustrated that it was not him that was remembered. Petty, useless thought. Hythlodaeus would mock him endlessly and Emet-Selch would deserve it. ]
Are you able to mo- Ah. So you are. [ His stomach jolts at the warm press of lips against his palm, the flicker of a smile starting, felt against skin he hadn't realized could be so sensitive. His voice stays steady, through sheer force of will. ]
No, we ought to eat. Both of us.
[ The last thing they need is for one of them - Viktor, because Emet-Selch has reserves to pull from - to pass out on the way home. As entertaining as it would be for Viktor to get the full treatment from the busybodies in the healing ward, Emet-Selch has little patience and does not relish the idea of having to explain any of what happened in terms they would understand. ]
[ Viktor shifts, not quite wanting to lose this contact. Afraid, ridiculously, that if he loses track of Emet-Selch's hands now, all that permeating cold will escape him, as well. It is not that he fears coming undone again - no, he is stitched into place once more. The sun of his soul burns deathly cold into Light even now. What he fears is losing the utter certainty, the inviolate proof of Hades's love.
Viktor repositions Emet-Selch's hand to cup his cheek, shuts his eyes and leans into the contact. ]
I would not complain if- if you decided I s-seemed so weak- [ He musters enough energy for a bit of theatrics, but he needn't. His voice is reedy enough. ] -that you thought it best to feed me your fancy cheeses yourself.
[ He flashes a grin, which serves only to make him look more tired for how much dimmer it is than usual. His strength is steadily returning, though, and his head clear enough to consider what's just transpired. His gaze falls, finally, thoughtful. ] N-not my favorite way to get closer to you. But. 'Tis... nice, this feel of your aether within me. You are- alright? It did not c-cost you much to knit me into place?
[ Were Viktor upright Emet-Selch thinks a stiff wind would blow him over. It has been a long time since he thought that Viktor was weak; he was disabused of that notion very quickly. To see him now, like this - weak is not the word he wants to use but it is accurate.
Uncomfortable. There is no one around to know if he indulges. He'd know, but is indulgence not the point when engaging in any sort of relationship? Is not that not part of the benefit?
Patting once, twice at Viktor's chest, he stretches and grasps for one of the cheeses and knives, starting to cut pieces at the very least. The fruit he'd managed to bring are what he pulls out next, along with the honey, giving Viktor a dubious look. ]
You're going to get crumbs all over yourself if you continue to lie down.
[ He hands Viktor a little cracker with cheese, a blackberry and a drizzle of honey all the same, frowning as if he is not a willing, active participant in making a mess of crumbs. ]
Heavens forfend. [ A little shaky, Viktor rises first to his elbows and then up to sitting properly - still leaning against Emet-Selch as much as he can, greedy - before finally taking the offered morsel between his fingers. ] That the Warrior might - ugh - get a little messy. The s-scandal.
[ An overwrought gasp, fingers of his free hand splayed across his chest, over the heart that now beats again. Already, he looks less like a soul wound back from the Underworld, more like one roused from a nap, eyes tired and hair wild, but the color returned to his face.
He spares a second examining the assembled snack, appreciating the layers of color, the way it seems like the sort of thing that'd be served at a fancy dinner party in Ishgard or Ul'Dah or, he supposes, Garlemald. Viktor has eaten his own weight in hard cheeses and tack many times over. It's a little fun to see travel food reprised into a luxurious single bite. His gaze lifts to Emet-Selch, wondering at how he indulges him, how readily he shares all his comfortable little delights.
On impulse, Viktor dips his pinky into the drizzle of honey, dots the sticky sweet gold onto his tongue as though to sample just that, and then leans in, strains upward, to press his parted lips to Emet-Selch's mouth, sharing sugar, sharing sunlight, sharing breath. ]
Th-thank you. [ He whispers as he draws away, popping the assembled cracker into his mouth. He chews twice, and, as ever, heedless of manners, adds, ] D'you mind- may I ask about what I s-saw, what you thought of, when you let me in?
You needn't worry about a scandal, the worry you ought to have is whether or not I will allow your crumb-laden body into my pristine bed.
[ He will. Emet-Selch is not certain if they both know that he will allow Viktor into his bed in very nearly any state, but Emet-Selch knows this is all performative irritation. He finds himself wondering at how easy it is. It shouldn't be, probably. He shouldn't be able to backslide into old habits made new when they have so much yet left to do but Viktor makes it upsettingly difficult not to.
It is not, he thinks wryly, Viktor's fault. Too easily does he lie the blame down at Viktor's feet, when Emet-Selch is the one bending, breaking, instead of standing firm like he ought to. As if Viktor hears him, there's a rasp of cloth and then Viktor is in front of him, pressing a kiss against his mouth, lingering just long enough for Emet-Selch to taste the sugar on his tongue and start to lean forward for more. Then, he's gone, a heathen in his place, chewing happily.
Emet-Selch swallows against a dry mouth and does his level best to look like he's incomprehensibly old and well-used to this sort of thing because he is and it is, frankly, mortifying that anyone could fluster him in any capacity. He ought to have outgrown that several thousand years ago. Head ducked forward, hair falling into his face as he fixes his own cracker and holds a hand carefully beneath to prevent spills, he pauses before popping it in his mouth. This question he expected, at the very least. An inevitability. ]
You may not like the answers you get. [ Emet-Selch pops the morsel into his mouth, chews, swallows, and doesn't dare think about how the flavor is lessened when not kissed from Viktor's mouth. ] And I may decline to answer. But you may ask.
[ Sweet and savory, the little treat is far more complex than Viktor expects. His head angles as he considers the flavor, eyes brightening with delight. Oh, they should have little lunches more often. Each sharing foods the other has never had before; Emet-Selch explaining the history and aquisition of every ingredient in fine detail. Something to look forward to, once they've begun to rebuild in earnest. ]
Cruel of you to deny me access to my favorite place!
[ He clucks and pouts exaggeratedly, shaking his head as he licks honey from his fingers.
Viktor does not know. Not in full, at least. Were he to guess, he would miss by malms just how much he is adored, how easily he could wrest near anything he might desire from Emet-Selch. Knowing isn't necessary, though. He would press, either way - wants to be here with him. Will fight for closeness, for their arguments, for the closest thing either of them can possibly have to a normal life.
He reaches forward to brush a few loose strands of hair out of Emet-Selch's face, tucking them back behind his ear with a triumphant grin, pleased at having ruffled him. ]
Aye, you needn't answer if you do not w-want. [ Viktor leans against him, still seeking warmth. ] You thought of- you tried to s-save someone else, once, aye? When you were young. Who...?
[ He does not watch Viktor lick honey from his fingers, he cannot watch that, and allow his mind to run rampant. Instead, he takes to unpacking cheeses and crackers and bread with militant efficiency, settling items out on plates and platters, slicing cheese into neat chunks, mulling over the answer he wants to give. ]
I do not recall their name or who they were.
[ Should he? He had to have been told their name originally; that had to be a part of the process where he was censured and educated on why he had made a foolish decision, but he doesn't recall the name itself. It hadn't been important. The color of their soul had been a muted tawny brown, and that memory stuck with him, useless. ]
There were occasions where those studying for one position or another were expected to create something outside of their baseline capability. One could grow into the ability, one they learned how to manage themselves and their aether. But every so often there would be someone - a student, a member of one of the Words - who pushed too hard without someone there to assist and supplement and they would drain themselves.
[ Emet-Selch plucks a piece of bread free once he's cut enough slices, and begins layering honey, goat cheese, thinly sliced meat and only once it's finished does he hand it thoughtlessly off to Viktor before doing it again for himself. ]
They did, and I was the fool who attempted to grasp their soul, to keep them here long enough to supplement their aether with my own reserves, without knowing how or understanding what I'd done. I was young. Foolish.
[ Very abruptly, the many long months of watching Emet-Selch dodder about his room, tending to this or that, looking everywhere but him, make perfect sense. Not disinterest, not disgust. He's simply flustered. How ridiculous of both of them - that Viktor hadn't seen it sooner, that someone like Emet-Selch could be thrown off kilter by someone like him. The most dignified, collected man Viktor has ever known besotted by a silly adventurer. How delightful.
More surprising, even, than this realization, is the one he has right after. Relief, obligation, discomfort, all the things he usually feels when faced with someone so smitten are absent. And in their place, excitement - the desire to draw out more, to linger in this feeling. An impish grin climbs across Viktor's features, as wide as it is troublesome. Emet-Selch slicing little rounds of bread might as well be the most fascinating activity in the world for how intently Viktor watches him.
He listens, struck by how readily Emet-Selch answers him, too used to probing questions being gently swerved around, turned into lectures. This, though, feels raw, especially for how plainly it is relayed. That wicked smile on his face shrinks by measures, and as Emet-Selch pushes the assembled amuse-bouche into his hand, Viktor reaches out the other to light fingers on his forearm. ]
You were brave. [ He closes his fingers around his sleeve, squeezes lightly. ] 'Twas a bad end, aye, but your intent, your willingness to act- there is nothing f-foolish about wishing to preserve life, no matter what rules or duty tell us. [ He hangs, just a moment, and then his serious expression fades with a soft laugh. ] It p-probably does not mean much coming from me. I doubt you have known a version of me that cared much for laws or regulations.
[ What little he'd come to know of Azem before calling Hades back, subversive behavior seemed to number among his most defining traits. Viktor takes a careful bite of the assembled tidbit, chews twice, and hums his approval, his earlier seriousness swallowed up in sunshine-y joy. Mouth still full, he picks at the salty slice of meat to get a look at everything assembled beneath. ]
[ After making himself another bite he goes about assembling piece after piece with a speed and ease that comes from countless nights entertaining, having tired of incompetence in the kitchen in one way or another, opting to handle the tasks himself. Or, in certain not-infrequently situations, needing to make sure a meal proceeded without any of the poisoning save for the ones he orchestrated. ]
Do not mistake the point of the lesson. [ Emet-Selch lifts his gaze to meet Viktor's, the busy movement of his hands pausing. ] There is a natural order we exist within and are meant to uphold. It is not on us to decide who stays and who remains when they have passed beyond the care of a healer.
[ This cannot, he thinks, turn into some inspirational moment. He had erred gravely, specifically, and his mentor had always been sparing with her praise but blunt with her critique, her instruction, and her expectation. Certain information she would withhold until she had deemed him or his efforts worthy, but anything related to the seat of Emet-Selch, she imparted without hesitation. He had to do the same; the worst would be for Viktor to make the same mistakes. ]
You are much more likely to cause irreparable harm to a soul than to save it. This is not an indictment of your abilities or being whole. The only reason I was able to wrest you back so neatly, so cleanly is because of how inextricably we have wound our souls. Even then - [ There was a chance, but he hadn't allowed himself to consider it. Emet-Selch snaps, and a dozen little side plates appear. Pickled vegetables, candied nuts, honeycomb, a platter of greens for Del. He returns to the arduous task of assembling finger food, remaining steadfast even in the face of the sun as Viktor looks at him, handsome, easily pleased. Like he hadn't almost - ]
Do not give so much of yourself again, and certainly not to a creation.
[ Emet-Selch steals a look over at Viktor, feeling the thousands of years like a physical weight. He's had variations of this snack countless times. Meat and cheese and a bread option are not overly complex, but Viktor's easy pleasure makes him take a more considering bite, makes him taste instead of mechanically chewing and swallowing to eat and be done. It is, unsurprisingly, good when he lets himself taste. ]
[ Almost hypnotising, watching him craft so many little snacks without thought. There is delight to be found in the way his fingers move, deft and certain, over so repetitious and mundane a task. Not complicated magic or alchemy, not Creation, just pleasant little snacks and sandwiches, set out for them both to sample. The sort of thing meant purely for enjoyment. The sort of thing Viktor imagines ordinary people in extraordinary love get up to, because they've got the time to spend on each other.
He pops the second half of the little crostini in his mouth and selects a different, pretty little snack to begin inspecting. When Emet-Selch's hands still, Viktor's brows raise. And he listens, for what else would he do? Even the little condiments snapped into being go ignored, so focused is Viktor on Emet-Selch's words.
Inextricably, he says. And isn't that the truth? Even before their ritual. Before the world ended. Before Viktor was Viktor, and mayhap even before Hades was Hades and Aepymetes, Aepymetes. Bound up, they are, two pieces of a three part set. And Viktor had very nearly removed himself from the chessboard once more.
He sets the cracker between his fingers back down and reaches out, closes slender fingers around Emet-Selch's wrist. ]
Everything ends. I know. Life needs death.
[ Every slaughtered scion at the Waking Sands, Haurchefant, Papalymo, Tesleen, the Exarch, his own flesh and blood mother, others beyond counting - lives cut short, lost in no small part due to his own failings, and yet, he would not call a one of them back, not at the risk of harm deeper than flesh and bone. ]
I have seen too many die in my name not to give death the gravity it is due. 'Tis not my desire to ch-cheapen what others have s-sacrificed, to risk them by upsetting the cycle. I will have a care, Hades. I promise.
[ What he does not say feels obvious to him - that there are times where the laws of both men and nature needs must be challenged, that men like him, men like Hades, do not exist without some measure of rebellion, chaos, for better or worse. He certainly does not say that he would give his life readily and without regret a thousand times over if it'd meant peace, happiness, safety for their star.
He doesn't say it, because it isn't entirely true. Not anymore. There would be regret in cutting his own life short.
Viktor lifts his hand to brush his fingers along the line of Emet-Selch's cheek, up and over his ear, lingering in his hair. ]
I will not readily allow myself to be wrested from this star. From you. I will ever return when you call.
[ Life needs death, and what is Viktor if not life? Regardless of the ties he holds to the Underworld, to death, he is not of death in the same way that Emet-Selch is. He is far more cyclical - death and rebirth, reformed into a new shape with each life, where Emet-Selch has for better worse but mostly worse, stayed very near stagnant until recently.
While he wishes to belabor the point, there is no reason to. To drag multiple reassurances out of him would not make Emet-Selch feel better, nor would it solve the issue at hand because it has been solved. The horse is quite dead, he needn't beat it further. Busying himself with plating the next set of fingerfood, he's very nearly started when Viktor reaches out, winding fingers around his wrist to still him. ]
I shall hold you to that promise.
[ There's an inherent worry that comes with what he attempts to do by linking Viktor; Viktor is unpredictable. This is often not in a bad way; he'd found Aepymetes' unpredictable nature charming, if slightly irritating at times where it conflicted with what Emet-Selch thought needed done in a specific way according to specific rules. Viktor is not about to reverse the process of life and death to suit his needs. If he's being truthful, the worry is not and would never be Viktor but instead Emet-Selch, refusing to accept the death of Viktor if it weren't of old age. The thought sits, uncomfortable, Viktor's gentle touch a slight balm. ]
Eat, instead of gazing at me. I refuse to carry you back to the Crystarium nor do I wish to find out how much bribery your bird would take to assist in the process.
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[ He hefts Viktor easily enough, only the faintest bit of magical assistance to manage the motion and then once he's settled on his feet, steps back a touch to give Viktor space to determine where best to plant.
He gives Del a lingering, dubious look but when the bird doesn't seem interested in his bag he follows after Viktor, toeing at the bald ground. ]
For longevity, you would need to alter the soil first. It has been a while, but you may wish for better drainage. To manage that, you've two options. The first option is to simply attempt to change half of the clay-like soil to gravel. The second is to attempt to introduce gravel into the substrate itself, forcibly aerating the soil as you do.
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[ Viktor rests his palm over the ground and, tentative, cautious, focuses on the earth until the make of it comes into focus. Not a tangle, but orderly lines of muted gold - the earth, the stone - interwoven with bursts of gleaming chaos, colorful little anomalies that, once upon a time, would have been the cause of a fearsome headache. Now, with the beginnings of understanding, with the skill to focus, they simply glint, lovely, and Viktor can begin to understand exactly why Aepymetes was so desperately in love with his weave. ]
And you. To lose that which you'd so carefully collected. [ A pause, his head lists to get another view of the threads beneath him. ] Gravel, I think I can manage. 'Tis quite saturated with Light, here, still. [ He tips a grin in Emet-Selch's direction. ] Do you mind sh-shiny grapes?
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Focus on the gravel, not on me. [ He drops into a crouch next to Viktor, peering at his hands and then after a beat of hesitation, looking properly. Viktor glows so brightly he thinks he ought to have accepted the offer of a hat, earlier. ]
So long as they are edible, I care not. Gravel to aerate the soil, and then - prepare your seeds and I will return shortly.
[ He does not care to make them attempt to make manure for fertilizing; rather than do that he rips a portal open carelessly and steps back onto the farm from earlier, digging in a barn shed until he comes out with a half-full bag, dropping it upon the ground. ]
Once you've tended the ground, then you may plant. 'Tis not so different from coaxing seed to flower in the Underworld; it may even be easier. The difficulty is not putting too much of your own aether to induce flowering and speed the process to fruiting. The moment you feel a drain on your aether, you will reach out to me and borrow my own. Do you understand?
no subject
[ It does not quite bother him, being brushed off as such. A faint sting, easily set aside. It is as Emet-Selch had said, there must be a balance. A sun and a moon, light for the dark. One to think ever of the next great and harrowing step, the other to remember that even the smallest things may have been important to someone. If he is silly for it, he is silly.
Without tools, he relies on spellwork to do his planting. Earth is easy enough to move for one practiced in White Magic, a swipe of his hand does the trick. For gravel, he finds the exact thread that changes dirt to rock, pins it in place with care, and then applies the stones to the ground the way he might have applied the same to the face of some fiend years ago - shotgun blasted. That should sufficiently aerate.
A layer of soil over that, then the process is repeated twice more, making layers.
When Emet-Selch returns, Viktor is clutching a handful of seeds between his palms. His body's preference for stillness makes it difficult to stir them from their slumber, and he can't help but wonder whether his own aether will negatively affect the taste, but eventually, he settles on planting. ]
Aye. Aye. No over-d-doing it. I am not a ch-child. [ He frowns as he sets the seeds into the earth, and hasn't quite wiped the look away when he glances back up. ] That farm I glimpsed- on the Source? 'Twas safe? No Terminus creatures?
no subject
Ridiculous. He shouldn't feel so irritated when Viktor has obviously suggested this with intent; of course he'd threaten to ruin it. ]
Of course not.
[ Before that sour look can curdle fully onto his face, Emet-Selch finds himself distracted with the question, with the simple surprise of finding somewhere seemingly untouched by disaster. ]
None at all. I searched while I was availing myself of their cellars, but could find nothing. My suspicion is they either evacuated with the other swathes of farmers in one of the initial waves, or- [ his shoulder rises and falls in a shrug ] The animals were well-kept. Rain kept the troughs full, their fields were flourishing. One would never know what has occurred to look at it.
[ Crouching, he presses a hand against the ground and hums when he finds the ground sufficient as if he expected anything else. ]
The difficulty after fruiting is ensuring you push to ripeness, not to a point where they rot on the vine. Were I you, I would attempt to grow as many plants as possible, and then attempt to coax them to fruit one by one.
on my hands and knees begging myself to write shorter tags christ fdsjafd i'm so sorry
And as to the farm's former human residents - he chooses to believe that they were among those rescued, folk who will be happy to see their flocks well when they eventually return. Who will not struggle to feed themselves as they reacclimate to their own home, who might share a harvest with neighbors, with friends they'd made amidst all this harship.
That anyone could look upon his star, glimpse these pockets of things doing and being in spite of everything, and still find this existence wanting is so utterly baffling. ]
What a happy surprise, mm? [ He allows a smile while Emet-Selch tests his work. It is more than sufficient, he knows - a master botanist would not settle for less - and cannot help but snicker at that considering hum. ] Perhaps there are many such hidden gems left to find back home.
[ He nods along to Emet-Selch's advice he flattens his palms against the earth. Easy to find the seeds amidst the dirt. Little dots of potential, not quite yet kinetic, there humming against his senses.
He shuts his eyes, focuses, finding the thread of one. It is almost nothing to dig metaphorical fingers into the make of that first seed, and just as Aepymetes had pulled his own soul apart to read its story, so too, now, does Viktor unravel thread. Except here, rather than merely read, he takes that spark of potential and guides it up the line.
Roots unfurl, life emerges, pushing up through the earth into sprouts. Viktor lifts his palms, and the growth follows, little firework bursts of green and brown as stem turns to bark and leaves explode along its length. He repeats the process with two more plants, then pauses to fashion stakes for them out of aether repurposed from nearby excess earth. Those, he sets by hand, and resumes growing as he guides each vine upon its support.
He is silent through the whole process, still not quite skilled enough to make conversation as he wades half his consciousness into the weave to Create most effectively. And also, simply enjoying the act of Making far too much to split his attention. It is, he thinks, not unlike being devoured by the work of embroidery. Each movement, done with care, with intention, requiring focus, but so rhythmic as to become rote.
Plants grow, winding upward, and finally, Viktor arrives at the most exciting part: fruit. He spares Emet-selch a beaming smile before he proceeds, proud of the work he's done, delighting in the familiar color of Lominsan grape vines, lusciously dark when set against Lakeland's sea of pale violet.
How impressively easy, how pleasing it is to grow, watching seeds become something lush and eager to be coaxed to fruiting. It is work he feels almost meant for in a strange way. Viktor hardly notices how heavy his limbs become as he feeds his own aether into the first plant, guiding buds to flower, then flowers to clusters of fruit. Larger, larger, larger.
As he lets the plant gorge itself, his mind wanders. There is, he thinks, a hopefully not-too-distant future where he tends a garden, one he can call his. There, Emet-Selch sits at a table, sips his lunchtime tea, watching him work as he complains about some new and complicated matter Sharlayan has set in their lap. Some bit of business that will call the two of them to the far reaches of their star once more.
Their future, Viktor thinks, a little dizzy.
He has been acquainted with his limits before. Near more times than can be counted, in fact. They are old friends at this point, he and his breaking point, met briefly before he is wrenched back, ever pulled to heel by Hydaelyn.
Except, Hydaelyn isn't here anymore.
Clumps of green ripen to wisteria colors cast with a silver sheen as they continue to swell. And that is where Viktor finds his limit, in the wrongness of the color, in the glow. Time seems to slow, then, pulled out infinite, like the moments captured between Nabriales's palms. Viktor turns to Emet-Selch, but the action takes more effort than he expects. He extends a hand, palm open, meaning to grasp for the greater pool of aether, except-
Except the hungry plant he's fostered has him. And it is not he who guides growth, but the plant that pulls him along. Viktor feels himself go thin as the grape vine siphons him nearly dry. The world spins and hums, vibrant and beautiful, an explosive riot of colors as everything around him becomes thread, more gleaming and gorgeous than dragon fire, more blinding than a Warden's Light. ]
I feel w-weak.
[ His spool reaches its end. His arm, too heavy to lift, falls limp to his side once more as the plant before him erupts with monstrous new growth. There is no bright burst, no horrible noise or calamity. Viktor simply falls, the vines sprawling out to embrace him, twining over legs and arms, warm and familiar - his own aether, made green, embracing him, as twilight fades to dark. ]
LMAOOO
While he busies himself with growing from seed, Emet-Selch sets about making ready to eat, his stomach reminding him that it has been since early morning when he'd haphazardly made eggs and piled them atop toast and then forgotten to eat half of it before getting distracted. Plates. Cutlery. Little knives for cheese because while they could use their existing cutlery, Emet-Selch sees no need to abide savagery when he's perfectly capable of creating a set that will suffice.
It is, he thinks, a little odd to be in the instructor's seat in this capacity. An unthinkable amount of years ago he'd had at least some passing interaction with youths in his capacity as Emet-Selch, be they with the Word of various other seats or a child of one of them. He does not think himself particularly adept with children, but he's passable enough. To teach an adult, over-powered and under-educated in his abilities, is entirely different. With a child, the most one might expect is a creature from a nightmare coming to life. Easy enough to dispose of, and the nightmares of children were not filled with the knowledge of actual horrors. Viktor has seen plenty of horror from which to draw.
Any of his lessons are ones he must adjust and even then, he is not certain how much is actually useful and how much simply the nudge in the right direction is all that must occur, because the soul remembers. He'd taken to every bit Emet-Selch introduced with an ease and familiarity that ached at points when contrasted with the manual labor performed in the kitchens and in the apothecary. How much more they could be, if they just knew.
If Emet-Selch taught them. If they revealed the nature of the world and how it was, and did not make evident how it was Emet-Selch came to know these abilities well enough to teach them.
A handful of yalms away, grape vines crawl across the ground and up their stakes, and Emet-Selch hides a smile despite himself, pleased. Even if they're terrible, the very fact that grapes sprouted and grew is enough. The barrier he maintains between them always feels as if it gets a bit hot when one of them uses their abilities; he doesn't know how else to describe it, even if it is an intangible heat, almost indistinguishable from holding back the full force and brightness of Viktor's soul. The barrier keeping them separate is necessary for so many reasons, one most of all that he does not wish to snuff all of that light and warmth out accidentally.
There's the briefest moment where he thinks Viktor has been awfully quiet longer than he expects which is about when he hears the other man utter an observation with no panic, no fear whatsoever. Viktor falls, a marionette with its strings cut and Emet-Selch presses his lips into a thin line, rising what feels like through sludge. Painfully slow, he makes his way over to where Viktor lies crumpled in front of his grapes.
He's raised the barrier between them ilms for bits and pieces of context, but never dared to do more than the tiniest corner. Too much and he runs the risks he worries about, but he has had little reason to lift them aside from that. This, he thinks with grim amusement, is reason enough. The warmth behind the barrier has always felt like sitting on the other side of a sunny window. The chill is pronounced, seeping through to his bones, making the process of prying his gloves off with his teeth that much more arduous.
One hand nudges itself beneath the nape of his neck, tilting his head up, angling fingers to his pulse while he plants the other atop Viktor's chest, nudging aside cloth to reach skin and flattening his hand once he does. Replenishing aether is not wholly unfamiliar, even if he is a bit unpracticed. He would rather it weren't familiar at all, but workers exhausting themselves - stars, even Hythlodaeus pouring a little too much of himself into a concept to test it and refusing to ask Emet-Selch despite him being there - ]
Is it so hard to listen to me when I speak? [ Despite the sharp edge to his tone, his touch is gentle. When he feeds his own aether into Viktor, following the a guide thread to the rest of the weave, he is gentle. It is not an ocean of force shoving aether back into him, forcibly resuscitating him. Like coaxing the embers of a flame to relight, adding small kindling first and only graduating to larger pieces once he's certain he won't smother the flames. Slowly, the warmth comes back, slowly his vision fills with gold once again and he's never been so glad to look at something and feel his eyes ache a little. Whether or not Viktor can hear him as he works, Emet-Selch complains. ] One plant's fruit at a time. One. Not the whole damned grove, not the largest possible grapes that one could conceivably force a vine to bear. One. And to warn me. I was quite clear on that point as well, you know.
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There is a snag.
Just as the last of himself starts to slip, it catches. Tries to get away, but can't. Curled on something offered, a gift he cannot - would not ever - refuse, no matter how badly it burns. Not with heat, he realizes, waking up enough to recall that there is a difference, but cold, impossibly cutting. Though the weave beckons him, calling him to be everything and nothing, the last scraps of Viktor wind themselves around that familiar knife's edge, slow, coiling, consuming what's been given. Ice becomes fuel, becomes flame, becomes Light, as Viktor accepts an offered anchor, and all the prickling, painful nourishment that comes with it - drinks like a man parched.
Excruciating seconds of stillness tick by, Viktor motionless, a cold and empty shell in Emet-Selch's arms. By impossibly slow measures, he warms, the glimmer of him glowing as it is fed. His senses return. Before he can move, before he can breathe, he can hear, he can feel, he can think. Time has meaning, again - how long has he been out? He gains a sense of his body - did Emet-Selch take him somewhere else? Why is it so loud? A din of worry, scraps of terror and panic, underlain beneath the ever steady sound of Emet-Selch's voice.
Stop fussing, he wants to say, but can't until he draws breath. And so, he does that next. Then movement. Viktor opens one eye, just a crack, and is surprised to find himself surrounded by green. Green and nothing else, save Emet-Selch.
There, he realizes, the storm of fear not a crowd. The veil between them has been lifted, and the cacophony is that one busy, busy mind, worrying over him. Viktor lifts his hand, fighting pins and needles, the press his palm to Emet-Selch's cheek. He is so much warmer than his aether; full of life. Slow, shaking, Viktor shifts to press against the trunk of Emet-Selch's body, hungry for warmth. ]
I a-apologize. [ He says, and without the veil, the rest spills through.
Viktor shuts his eyes again as tears gather in his lashes. The gratitude he feels is near overwhelming, second only to the sense of being knit up wholly in the make of Hades, aether married, tangled, no veil between them, and yet still allowed to be himself. A glint of gold set against dark indigo. Surrounded, safe.
His throat is dry. How does he even begin to convey these feelings? He hasn't the words, and so, he simply says, ] Are they p-pretty, at least? My grapes?
i'm soooooo sorry for this LMAOO
( Selfish boy, the voice says, but there's no heat to it, just disappointment. Shame curdles in him all the same; he'd prefer the anger, but the disappointment is worse, several times over. The body lies on the ground between them, not alive, not returned to the Underworld, but in a horrible middle ground. His fault. Our duty is not to heal, to save. Leave that work to others. We do not interfere, we do not upset the careful balance we maintain. If someone passes, our duty is to guide, not to grasp them with both hands and- )
He uses both hands to pull Viktor back, in flagrant denial of that rule. Winds the gold thread of Viktor's being around his palms like a leash no matter how badly it digs into his skin, forcibly making himself an anchor until Viktor warms by ilms. He wishes sometimes that the nature of his powers meant he gave warmth instead; how many times did he come home from working one magic or another and when greeting either of his partners, unintentionally wrested a jump from them as cold hands met their much warmer skin? Death was not warmth and life, though and he had long since missed the chance to throw his lot in with a different Seat, even if he'd wanted to.
Viktor inhales, finally, and the action is a reminder that so too must Emet-Selch. He draws in a shuddering breath of cool, crisp air, tastes green from the crushed grass, the growth of life around them and waits for a second breath, a third.
( Ow? More of a question than an actual declaration, followed by the sound of an impact- a hand on a chest, like smacking a table. This time, the familiar voice is much more insistent, gasping out an, ow?! with much more vehemence, an edge of laughter to it as if he hadn't nearly worn himself threadbare, left Emet-Selch to walk into work and find naught but his corpse.
He continues feeding aether into Hythlodaeus, sloppy, hurried, panicked, until he realizes that Hythlodaeus is not complaining any longer, he's making quiet, pained noises where he has his face buried into Emet-Selch's shoulder. While he's alive enough to do that, and it's a relief, he's not strong enough to shove back any bit of Emet-Selch's aether, and has no propensity for manipulation and so it must have felt like being frozen from the inside out, even as he was wrested back from the Underworld. Hythlodaeus never holds the event against him; he was the one at fault, he'd say, but Emet-Selch doesn't dare forget the lesson. ) ]
I think the one who allowed himself to be distracted while you worked untested magics is the fool, if we will accuse anyone.
[ The gratitude registers and is discarded, not ungratefully but he cannot even think about Viktor being grateful when of course he would save Viktor. Were it within his means to manage, of course - it was his fault. He'd been too distracted thinking of frivolous other topics, fretting about a future they have not yet made manifest, lured into complacency with Viktor's easy acclimation to what once was. He would not make that mistake again. ]
No, they're hideous. Might as well be plums. [ He doesn't study them to judge; a glance is enough to note the fat fruit hanging from each vine and he's far more concerned with the sight of Viktor, far too still in his arms even if he can, at least, feel Viktor with far more surety than moments before.
Beneath him, his knee protests at the shared weight being put on it in such a position; gingerly, he stretches his leg out and settles Viktor more firmly against his chest, never once releasing the careful touch. Always, two hands on him. Greedy. Selfish. But victorious in a way he hadn't been the last time. He tries - the moment he feels that memory bubble up, his mind not kind enough to let the edges of that fade like so many other memories he'd desperately tried to keep - he tries to stifle it, to shove it down but the veil is lifted too far and he does not dare lower it, not until he is certain Viktor will be well.
( There's so much green around them. So much life, in spite of what has occurred. Lahabrea pushes through the destruction just a few yalms away and climbs over what he cannot push, far too exhausted to manage even unmaking the mess in front of them. Before the wave of magic hit, he'd felt the embers of countless souls those they could yet save and would once whatever this was passed. He had enough aether. He could manage. Maybe not all of them, but he could try.
The issue was not his capability - the issue was trying to get out from beneath whatever spellwork kept the three of them locked in place. When the barrier weakened, Emet-Selch shoved his own aether in to strengthen it as the storm raged harder around them, and did not think to analyze why he was so certain he tasted the clear rain-water of Venat's magics. Elidibus had tried to cross the barrier, pushing a hand out through it and they'd watched in mute horror as his hand had simply divided into neat slices of meat and bone at the wrist, and then the flesh divided further. Thinner. Thinner. By the time they'd shaken the horror off and Lahabrea'd wrested him back into the ostensible safety of the bubble of magic surrounding them, Elidibus' hand was gone with neat, surgical precision.
Fix that, Emet-Selch had snarled, because Elidibus was not dying or dead, and Elidibus could heal a hand, or Lahabrea could, but they could not coax embers to flame again and he was drained enough attempting to keep the barrier up. It hadn't mattered, in the end. Whatever magic had been wrought meant those lucky or unlucky enough to survive the immediate disaster were fractured, halved, halved, halved over and over until they were unrecognizable.
Halmarut's wretched vines that Hythlodaeus spent an entire evening litigating the exact leaf shape of, survive, along with the other botany projects scattered about in dust-and-rubble-covered containers.
The barrier drops, the immediate storm over and Emet-Selch sucks in a shuddering breath, nauseous at how much aether it took to weather the storm. They do not find any survivors, but he takes fleeting, bitter pleasure in wresting aether from the flood of green around them every time one of them is injured, and when out of plants and he sees what that storm had wrought of the embers that were unlucky enough to survive, well. The malformed creatures left over aren't aware enough to know they are being repurposed for fuel, anyway. The addition of their souls to the Underworld are insignificant. A pebble dropped into a lake.)
To save Viktor takes very little of his own aether reserves and does not necessitate he dip into any held elsewhere. Bit by bit, Viktor warms, and Emet-Selch starts to knit together the veil's anchor points once again, desperately trying to keep any memories or thoughts or impulses separate with middling levels of success. Only when he's certain does he stitch the last piece down, loose, just in case, and dares to look down at Viktor. The relief at the green surrounding them feels traitorous. ]
You will tell me if any bit of you feels - off.
screaming crying throwing up rolling around in this tag like a dog
[ Unbearable, to be seen in so thorough a way. Stumbling, soft, learning moments, before time had made titanium of his heart, each one laid out vivid for Viktor to see. So many little details, slipping through his fingers before he can properly grasp them - too fast even were he well, and certainly not now, exhausted as he is. Still, it's an invasion. One Emet-Selch makes no move to stop - allows, because far more pressing than the knife edge ache of his worst memories is Viktor's safety.
Viktor bears witness to Emet-Selch's past, mistakes, fears, regrets. Each hurt rings in his heart, sharp as if the pain were his own. He lifts his other hand, slow, with effort, to cradle Emet-Selch's face in both his palms, gently holding his gaze. He is something precious, deserving of care, a soft touch. Love. ]
You are not a fool. And there is no shame in th-thinking of the future. To exist in this time, to look ahead and still see potential? 'Tis a marvel. H-how we will win this. By embracing what good might come.
[ He can feel the curtain fall between them, and it is an impossibly lonely moment. Necessary, but isolating. He lets his hands fall to his chest, still feeling weak, and makes no move to shift away from Emet-Selch's embrace. ]
Aside from the ch-chill, I am... well enough. And will t-tell you if that changes. [ Emet-Selch's aether fills him, and it feels almost like Hydaelyn's blessing. Except- Hydaelyn's Light had been warm, and her love absent. Here, now, though Viktor's fingers are numb, every thread, every atom, hums with the confirmation that he is loved. Loved enough to be let in. Loved enough to break a cardinal rule. ] There is nothing in your past, nor in your mind n-now, that could change how I look at you. Do not fret much over a mometary p-parting of our veil.
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[ The sharpness, the irritation is somewhat mitigated by the fact he has his face buried in Viktor's curls, only so careful of the lilies crowning him, inhaling. Grounding himself. Reassuring himself that Viktor might not be entirely hale, not entirely whole, but he is here.
Perhaps most frustrating is that when the veil settles again, Emet-Selch misses the sensation of it being lifted. Not enough to be foolish and lift it once more, but for a brief, raw moment, it had been nice to know and not wonder. To have certainty of purpose, of feeling, even if it were jumbled up with trains of thought, with wherever one or both of them tugged the thread binding them.
When Emet-Selch finally manages the effort of lifting his head, Viktor reaches up and presses slowly warming hands against his face; he'd like to think he's strong enough not to lean into them, to not need the reassurance that it brings. He isn't. Hands flex against Viktor where he holds, jaw clenching momentarily as he steadies himself. ]
Yes, well. I can marvel at a future that might come when you are not attempting to wield magic unsupervised.
[ Would that he could make his aether warmer, but it has, as far as he's aware, always been cold. He'd always chalked the feeling up to the affinity he has with the Underworld, never had cause to worry or wonder about why save for very rare situations. Neither had he worried that a peek behind the veil would make Viktor think less of him, or change how he looked at him. It should. Emet-Selch wouldn't feel better necessarily, but if Viktor looked at him and found nothing but horror at least Emet-Selch would understand that instead of being given grace he does not deserve. ]
You wretched- I do not care about the veil. I do not care about your horrifically oversized grapes. [ He stops short of following up with the obvious thing - person he does care about, making a disgruntled noise instead, chin settling atop Viktor's crown once more to stare out into the distance. After a beat, a searching hand finds Viktor's and envelops them, attempting to share at least a little more warmth. ]
Growing, creating - botany, specifically, is difficult in a way that animals, creatures are not. There is an end point for a creature. Arms, legs, head, torso. There is a finality with beings that does not exist with plant life. If given enough aether and free reign - [ He stops, sighing so heavily Viktor rises and falls with the motion. ] Well. I suppose we see what happens, don't we.
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Inside and out, he is embraced, tethered to the world by a man who once would not have hesitated to send his soul straight back to the Sea. Now, he gives of himself freely to keep Viktor whole, and what is offered is not given without thought, but with unspeakably dire intent. Hades, who knows well the cycle of souls, who has seen Azem live and die a thousand times, is unwilling to lose him.
Faced with such knowledge, how could Viktor ever allow himself to drift away? He does not deserve this sort of love, but it is all he has ever wanted. And now it is his, he will not let it go. He will guard this, them, with claws and teeth, with the full force of his will. They will not be easily separated again. ]
I know. I know. [ Soft, warm, apologetic. He hasn't better words, because there are none. Not in his lexicon. Not to adequately express regret for causing so much pain. Not to even begin to describe how ferociously Viktor loves him.
He welcomes the touch of warm hands with a sharp little sigh, guiltily loving the feel of being surrounded, consumed by him. Viktor shuts his eyes and listens as Emet-Selch seeks comfort in transforming something harrowing into a lesson - finds comfort there, himself, too, in the careful enunciation of each syllable. They are both alive, both well enough to get back to the familiar.
Viktor attempts to shift again. Odd, to have his body resist him, but he will not be denied this. Indulgent, he presses his face into Emet-Selch's chest just as the heavy sigh leaves him. Then, a thought occurs, almost funny, amid all this- ] What... do you suppose that m-means for my lilies, then?
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If you knew, you would not have -
[ No, not helpful. Emet-Selch trails off into a remarkably disgruntled noise and shares warmth instead, adjusting a touch when Viktor shifts in anticipation of him moving but he does not. His head drops against Emet-Selch's chest, the warmth of an exhale seeping through layers of clothes, making his skin prickle. ]
Your flowers? You, I suppose, are the garden. [ Gingerly he lifts a hand and plucks one of the lilies, smoothing rumpled hair down with his knuckles on the way to settle it atop Viktor's chest so they can both look at the bloom. ] They draw their aether from you, specifically, and run rampant I assume when you use aether best aspected toward their growth. The finality point for them exists because they are a creation, of a sort. They do not require actual earth, a stem, a root system; I would venture a guess that you act as such.
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I am a garden. [ The words ring, familiar, and with a twitch of his ears, he places where he knows them. ] The- the creature I made. The one that r-resembled Aepymetes. He- it told me... I- we- it said "We are a garden." T-told me I need to look to the roots. [ Viktor examines the callouses on Emet-Selch's fingers curiously. Were those always there? ] He c-called me Hythlodaeus.
[ His tired gaze flicks up to study Emet-Selch's face, the lingering stern worry. What sort of explosion is occurring at this moment in that busy head? A thousand potentials and how to plan for them. ]
I will have a c-care. I promise. [ He gathers up one of Emet-Selch's hands in his own, brings his palm to his lips and presses a kiss in the center. A faint smile tugs across his lips. ] You haven't lost your appetite, have you?
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The roots, then: the soul? He cannot think of what else Aepymetes-but-not would have meant. Better not to think of the creature at all, but neither of them have that luxury. ]
I see.
[ Viktor studies him, with a face that is his own, even if he's seen aspects of it on other shards, but with eyes- well. He tries to be satisfied at the idea that Viktor subconsciously remembered some element of what was and tries even harder not to be frustrated that it was not him that was remembered. Petty, useless thought. Hythlodaeus would mock him endlessly and Emet-Selch would deserve it. ]
Are you able to mo- Ah. So you are. [ His stomach jolts at the warm press of lips against his palm, the flicker of a smile starting, felt against skin he hadn't realized could be so sensitive. His voice stays steady, through sheer force of will. ]
No, we ought to eat. Both of us.
[ The last thing they need is for one of them - Viktor, because Emet-Selch has reserves to pull from - to pass out on the way home. As entertaining as it would be for Viktor to get the full treatment from the busybodies in the healing ward, Emet-Selch has little patience and does not relish the idea of having to explain any of what happened in terms they would understand. ]
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Viktor repositions Emet-Selch's hand to cup his cheek, shuts his eyes and leans into the contact. ]
I would not complain if- if you decided I s-seemed so weak- [ He musters enough energy for a bit of theatrics, but he needn't. His voice is reedy enough. ] -that you thought it best to feed me your fancy cheeses yourself.
[ He flashes a grin, which serves only to make him look more tired for how much dimmer it is than usual. His strength is steadily returning, though, and his head clear enough to consider what's just transpired. His gaze falls, finally, thoughtful. ] N-not my favorite way to get closer to you. But. 'Tis... nice, this feel of your aether within me. You are- alright? It did not c-cost you much to knit me into place?
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[ Were Viktor upright Emet-Selch thinks a stiff wind would blow him over. It has been a long time since he thought that Viktor was weak; he was disabused of that notion very quickly. To see him now, like this - weak is not the word he wants to use but it is accurate.
Uncomfortable. There is no one around to know if he indulges. He'd know, but is indulgence not the point when engaging in any sort of relationship? Is not that not part of the benefit?
Patting once, twice at Viktor's chest, he stretches and grasps for one of the cheeses and knives, starting to cut pieces at the very least. The fruit he'd managed to bring are what he pulls out next, along with the honey, giving Viktor a dubious look. ]
You're going to get crumbs all over yourself if you continue to lie down.
[ He hands Viktor a little cracker with cheese, a blackberry and a drizzle of honey all the same, frowning as if he is not a willing, active participant in making a mess of crumbs. ]
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[ An overwrought gasp, fingers of his free hand splayed across his chest, over the heart that now beats again. Already, he looks less like a soul wound back from the Underworld, more like one roused from a nap, eyes tired and hair wild, but the color returned to his face.
He spares a second examining the assembled snack, appreciating the layers of color, the way it seems like the sort of thing that'd be served at a fancy dinner party in Ishgard or Ul'Dah or, he supposes, Garlemald. Viktor has eaten his own weight in hard cheeses and tack many times over. It's a little fun to see travel food reprised into a luxurious single bite. His gaze lifts to Emet-Selch, wondering at how he indulges him, how readily he shares all his comfortable little delights.
On impulse, Viktor dips his pinky into the drizzle of honey, dots the sticky sweet gold onto his tongue as though to sample just that, and then leans in, strains upward, to press his parted lips to Emet-Selch's mouth, sharing sugar, sharing sunlight, sharing breath. ]
Th-thank you. [ He whispers as he draws away, popping the assembled cracker into his mouth. He chews twice, and, as ever, heedless of manners, adds, ] D'you mind- may I ask about what I s-saw, what you thought of, when you let me in?
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[ He will. Emet-Selch is not certain if they both know that he will allow Viktor into his bed in very nearly any state, but Emet-Selch knows this is all performative irritation. He finds himself wondering at how easy it is. It shouldn't be, probably. He shouldn't be able to backslide into old habits made new when they have so much yet left to do but Viktor makes it upsettingly difficult not to.
It is not, he thinks wryly, Viktor's fault. Too easily does he lie the blame down at Viktor's feet, when Emet-Selch is the one bending, breaking, instead of standing firm like he ought to. As if Viktor hears him, there's a rasp of cloth and then Viktor is in front of him, pressing a kiss against his mouth, lingering just long enough for Emet-Selch to taste the sugar on his tongue and start to lean forward for more. Then, he's gone, a heathen in his place, chewing happily.
Emet-Selch swallows against a dry mouth and does his level best to look like he's incomprehensibly old and well-used to this sort of thing because he is and it is, frankly, mortifying that anyone could fluster him in any capacity. He ought to have outgrown that several thousand years ago. Head ducked forward, hair falling into his face as he fixes his own cracker and holds a hand carefully beneath to prevent spills, he pauses before popping it in his mouth. This question he expected, at the very least. An inevitability. ]
You may not like the answers you get. [ Emet-Selch pops the morsel into his mouth, chews, swallows, and doesn't dare think about how the flavor is lessened when not kissed from Viktor's mouth. ] And I may decline to answer. But you may ask.
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Cruel of you to deny me access to my favorite place!
[ He clucks and pouts exaggeratedly, shaking his head as he licks honey from his fingers.
Viktor does not know. Not in full, at least. Were he to guess, he would miss by malms just how much he is adored, how easily he could wrest near anything he might desire from Emet-Selch. Knowing isn't necessary, though. He would press, either way - wants to be here with him. Will fight for closeness, for their arguments, for the closest thing either of them can possibly have to a normal life.
He reaches forward to brush a few loose strands of hair out of Emet-Selch's face, tucking them back behind his ear with a triumphant grin, pleased at having ruffled him. ]
Aye, you needn't answer if you do not w-want. [ Viktor leans against him, still seeking warmth. ] You thought of- you tried to s-save someone else, once, aye? When you were young. Who...?
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I do not recall their name or who they were.
[ Should he? He had to have been told their name originally; that had to be a part of the process where he was censured and educated on why he had made a foolish decision, but he doesn't recall the name itself. It hadn't been important. The color of their soul had been a muted tawny brown, and that memory stuck with him, useless. ]
There were occasions where those studying for one position or another were expected to create something outside of their baseline capability. One could grow into the ability, one they learned how to manage themselves and their aether. But every so often there would be someone - a student, a member of one of the Words - who pushed too hard without someone there to assist and supplement and they would drain themselves.
[ Emet-Selch plucks a piece of bread free once he's cut enough slices, and begins layering honey, goat cheese, thinly sliced meat and only once it's finished does he hand it thoughtlessly off to Viktor before doing it again for himself. ]
They did, and I was the fool who attempted to grasp their soul, to keep them here long enough to supplement their aether with my own reserves, without knowing how or understanding what I'd done. I was young. Foolish.
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More surprising, even, than this realization, is the one he has right after. Relief, obligation, discomfort, all the things he usually feels when faced with someone so smitten are absent. And in their place, excitement - the desire to draw out more, to linger in this feeling. An impish grin climbs across Viktor's features, as wide as it is troublesome. Emet-Selch slicing little rounds of bread might as well be the most fascinating activity in the world for how intently Viktor watches him.
He listens, struck by how readily Emet-Selch answers him, too used to probing questions being gently swerved around, turned into lectures. This, though, feels raw, especially for how plainly it is relayed. That wicked smile on his face shrinks by measures, and as Emet-Selch pushes the assembled amuse-bouche into his hand, Viktor reaches out the other to light fingers on his forearm. ]
You were brave. [ He closes his fingers around his sleeve, squeezes lightly. ] 'Twas a bad end, aye, but your intent, your willingness to act- there is nothing f-foolish about wishing to preserve life, no matter what rules or duty tell us. [ He hangs, just a moment, and then his serious expression fades with a soft laugh. ] It p-probably does not mean much coming from me. I doubt you have known a version of me that cared much for laws or regulations.
[ What little he'd come to know of Azem before calling Hades back, subversive behavior seemed to number among his most defining traits. Viktor takes a careful bite of the assembled tidbit, chews twice, and hums his approval, his earlier seriousness swallowed up in sunshine-y joy. Mouth still full, he picks at the salty slice of meat to get a look at everything assembled beneath. ]
This is so good?
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Do not mistake the point of the lesson. [ Emet-Selch lifts his gaze to meet Viktor's, the busy movement of his hands pausing. ] There is a natural order we exist within and are meant to uphold. It is not on us to decide who stays and who remains when they have passed beyond the care of a healer.
[ This cannot, he thinks, turn into some inspirational moment. He had erred gravely, specifically, and his mentor had always been sparing with her praise but blunt with her critique, her instruction, and her expectation. Certain information she would withhold until she had deemed him or his efforts worthy, but anything related to the seat of Emet-Selch, she imparted without hesitation. He had to do the same; the worst would be for Viktor to make the same mistakes. ]
You are much more likely to cause irreparable harm to a soul than to save it. This is not an indictment of your abilities or being whole. The only reason I was able to wrest you back so neatly, so cleanly is because of how inextricably we have wound our souls. Even then - [ There was a chance, but he hadn't allowed himself to consider it. Emet-Selch snaps, and a dozen little side plates appear. Pickled vegetables, candied nuts, honeycomb, a platter of greens for Del. He returns to the arduous task of assembling finger food, remaining steadfast even in the face of the sun as Viktor looks at him, handsome, easily pleased. Like he hadn't almost - ]
Do not give so much of yourself again, and certainly not to a creation.
[ Emet-Selch steals a look over at Viktor, feeling the thousands of years like a physical weight. He's had variations of this snack countless times. Meat and cheese and a bread option are not overly complex, but Viktor's easy pleasure makes him take a more considering bite, makes him taste instead of mechanically chewing and swallowing to eat and be done. It is, unsurprisingly, good when he lets himself taste. ]
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He pops the second half of the little crostini in his mouth and selects a different, pretty little snack to begin inspecting. When Emet-Selch's hands still, Viktor's brows raise. And he listens, for what else would he do? Even the little condiments snapped into being go ignored, so focused is Viktor on Emet-Selch's words.
Inextricably, he says. And isn't that the truth? Even before their ritual. Before the world ended. Before Viktor was Viktor, and mayhap even before Hades was Hades and Aepymetes, Aepymetes. Bound up, they are, two pieces of a three part set. And Viktor had very nearly removed himself from the chessboard once more.
He sets the cracker between his fingers back down and reaches out, closes slender fingers around Emet-Selch's wrist. ]
Everything ends. I know. Life needs death.
[ Every slaughtered scion at the Waking Sands, Haurchefant, Papalymo, Tesleen, the Exarch, his own flesh and blood mother, others beyond counting - lives cut short, lost in no small part due to his own failings, and yet, he would not call a one of them back, not at the risk of harm deeper than flesh and bone. ]
I have seen too many die in my name not to give death the gravity it is due. 'Tis not my desire to ch-cheapen what others have s-sacrificed, to risk them by upsetting the cycle. I will have a care, Hades. I promise.
[ What he does not say feels obvious to him - that there are times where the laws of both men and nature needs must be challenged, that men like him, men like Hades, do not exist without some measure of rebellion, chaos, for better or worse. He certainly does not say that he would give his life readily and without regret a thousand times over if it'd meant peace, happiness, safety for their star.
He doesn't say it, because it isn't entirely true. Not anymore. There would be regret in cutting his own life short.
Viktor lifts his hand to brush his fingers along the line of Emet-Selch's cheek, up and over his ear, lingering in his hair. ]
I will not readily allow myself to be wrested from this star. From you. I will ever return when you call.
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While he wishes to belabor the point, there is no reason to. To drag multiple reassurances out of him would not make Emet-Selch feel better, nor would it solve the issue at hand because it has been solved. The horse is quite dead, he needn't beat it further. Busying himself with plating the next set of fingerfood, he's very nearly started when Viktor reaches out, winding fingers around his wrist to still him. ]
I shall hold you to that promise.
[ There's an inherent worry that comes with what he attempts to do by linking Viktor; Viktor is unpredictable. This is often not in a bad way; he'd found Aepymetes' unpredictable nature charming, if slightly irritating at times where it conflicted with what Emet-Selch thought needed done in a specific way according to specific rules. Viktor is not about to reverse the process of life and death to suit his needs. If he's being truthful, the worry is not and would never be Viktor but instead Emet-Selch, refusing to accept the death of Viktor if it weren't of old age. The thought sits, uncomfortable, Viktor's gentle touch a slight balm. ]
Eat, instead of gazing at me. I refuse to carry you back to the Crystarium nor do I wish to find out how much bribery your bird would take to assist in the process.
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