[ He cannot help but sass back, though when Emet-Selch closes an arm around his waist to draw him in, it rather dampens the desire to give him any trouble at all. A hum, low and pleased, rolls out of him as he feels his shoulder blades press to skin. Embraced wholly, every ilm of him cradled by warmth, his skin prickles where they've slotted together, matched pieces.
And in the next breath, in the heartbeat of silence that follows, doubt bubbles up in the hollow of his chest; his lot is to serve, not receive such decadence. He is undeserving, has been spoiled, and the star will take its due for this excess.
Viktor shuts his eyes more tightly, lights his fingers on the back of the palm draped over his stomach, and pushes back on that feeling. This is worth it, and it will not be taken from him so easily.
Hades asks a question, and Viktor remembers to breathe. The tension set into his muscles unwinds, and he echoes the yawn, unable to help himself. ]
Our... kitchen, maybe. [ He offers, low and thoughtful, welcoming the distraction from darker thoughts. ] Our cups and plates. Our hearth. Our window garden. Our bath. [ Each item he lists draws a bit more tension out of him, and he echoes Emet-Selch's yawn, unable to help himself. ] Your shoebill. But, our... [ He starts to drift toward dreaming, voice going quiet as he slips into unconsciousness. ] ...little sprouts.
[ Emet-Selch doesn't answer given Viktor doesn't seem actually upset. More than that - he's grateful for the bit of distance between them all the same. He hadn't elected to bother chasing orgasm when they were together, far more satisfied lavishing attention upon Viktor. Uncomfortable but manageable. Were they both nude, half-awake in the morning, Emet-Selch is not certain the word no would be known to him were he propositioned in the morning.
Our is a dangerous word, he thinks, curving himself tighter around Viktor the sleeper his voice gets, daring to hook his fingers in Viktor's after a little patting about, index finger and middle curved loosely with Viktor's. ]
Hm. [ A hum, a murmur of acknowledgment, waiting until Viktor finally dozes off, his breathing evening out before Emet-Selch dares to tighten his grip around Viktor, tugging the blankets in around them even tighter. To lose this will be unbearable. Losing everything once had fundamentally cracked and broken something within him as a person; he'd known that then, but hadn't realized to what extent until lifetimes later. He wants, insanely, to start searching for Meteion. To take her out now, rather than waiting for her to subsume the world and hope they've salvaged enough to eke out a victory. Impossible, of course - he doesn't know where to begin searching, but the thought itches.
For now, he contents himself with memorizing this: the weight of the blankets tucked around them. Viktor's breathing as it settles into sleep. The scent of his curls, and beneath that, him, the warmth of his body and the malms of bare skin. It is enough. It has to be, for now. ]
[ There are no birds on this reflection save those relegated to the private menageries of wealthy lords. Or, if there are others, they do not choose to sleep here in these cold climes. Emet-Selch's candles, objects of Creation, do not burn down to stubs as the night rolls on, still flickering softly hours later. Viktor wakes to silence, to the faint warm cast of gold firelight, and cannot tell what time it is. Hades still clutches him close, tight, as though he fears he might lose him if he is not vigilant, and for a moment Viktor thinks he has only stirred from dozing, that only minutes have passed. Or that time itself fell victim to this frigid shard and froze in place.
He would be quite okay with that.
Except, they've got work to do. He tips his head back and catches sight of sunlight creeping in at the edges of heavy curtains. Still morning.
It is not often that he is awake before Emet-Selch. Hades has always been the last to doze, the first to stir, and Viktor himself cannot ever seem to fight off sleep long in his presence. In fact, he briefly considers shutting his eyes and scraping another bell's worth of sleep, but a rare opportunity has been set before him.
After untangling their twined fingers, he turns in Hades's grasp. Unsurprisingly, the palms gliding over his body as he moves might as well be steel on flint, sparking fire beneath bare skin. Incredible, ridiculous, how quickly an aching hunger comes to life in his stomach. He ignores it for now, content to simply study Hades as he sleeps, the dense fan of white lashes, the serene stillness of his expression while his mind is too busy untangling dreams to be burdened by his usual busy thoughts. The desire to press fingers to his features the way pilgrims lay hands on stone saints is near overwhelming. Viktor holds back, but doesn't refrain from indulging entirely.
At risk of waking him, Viktor bobs in to plant light kisses on his mouth, his cheek, his chin. Then, soft, barely even a whisper, ] It is easier to bloom with you in my life.
[ Hades is, Viktor thinks, rarely impressed with his romantic nonsense. But perhaps if he says it enough, if he whispers truths to Hades while he sleeps, it will untangle some of those wretched knots that seem to plague his mind every day. Easy to hope for, at least. Viktor leans in to steal another kiss, but a rap at the door interrupts him.
Just one.
Startled, annoyed, Viktor lifts a hand, grasps a thrumming thread of aether and stills it with a twist of his fingers, muting the door. He gives himself a moment to be shocked at what he's done, muscle memory far older than he is stirring to life suddenly. Viktor stares up at his lifted hand, fingers bent as though curling yarn between them, and lowers it slowly to smooth down their blankets. ]
Sleep. [ he murmurs, tucking a few fallen strands of platinum out of Hades's face. Out of bed is the absolute last place in the world Viktor wants to be, but he slips away from Hades's grasp, deposits his feet on the floor, and shivers immediately. Before he shoves himself out of bed entirely, Viktor reaches for another thread - a familiar one, a room away. His patchwork robe. A tug is all it takes, as though the thing wishes to be on his body. One second, he is naked, and the next, he isn't.
Viktor tries not to look to pleased with himself as, finally, he rises, tying off his robe as he crosses the room to answer the door.
The maid waiting at the door greets him with widened eyes, her attention falling immediately to the bruises dotting his neck.
Oh. Right.
Thankfully, the maid soldiers on with her duties. They settle on breakfast, smoked fish, eggs, and bread, the strongest tea they have, to be brought up and left by the door. Viktor is all too glad to send her on her way, shuts the still silenced door behind him, and hurries back to bed, ghosting fingers over the marks Hades had left on his skin.
He could get their day started, draw back curtains, fetch a change of clothes, stoke the fireplace. Instead, he shrugs off his robe and climbs back into bed, seeking to leech warmth from the beloved body still wound up beneath the sheets. Quiet, knowing the answer he will get, already, he asks, ] What if we just s-stayed in bed all day, instead?
[ He sleeps, he dreams. Insubstantial, whisps of things he'll never remember in full clarity come morning. They attend the theatre - Hythlodaeus is there, impossibly, within the Crystarium, making little comments in an attempt to get Emet-Selch and Viktor to break and laugh. They walk through Amaurot - it must be Amaurot, but as she was - with Viktor leading him by the hand, ducking them into anywhere that looks interesting. Their bedroom, one body already within the bed, another soon to come, the one within pressing kisses against his face nearly enough to rouse him and a knock heralding the other's arrival except-
The body within the bed shifts, starts to extricate itself and Emet-Selch makes a vaguely disgruntled sound into the pillow. The cold strikes him first, a sharp awareness borne from the lack of thick pajamas from throat to ankles. He tugs at the blankets and nestles closer within them, letting Viktor handle letting in - ah.
The dream crumbles away to nothing but insubstantial impressions, and Emet-Selch slowly wrests his eyes open, taking in the sight of Viktor in his patchwork robe at the door and the person outside, decidedly not Hythlodaeus. The disappointment he expects does not manifest; there's only a lingering grogginess from sleep debt needing repayment. He has, he thinks, slept through the chronometer's alarum. Or, more likely, he simply forgot to schedule it, far too distracted with watching Viktor do absolutely nothing. Mortifying.
Quiet conversation is faintly audible; Emet-Selch trusts Viktor to handle putting a meal together, given how many they've taken together. He ought to get up. Ought to wrest himself from the bed and take care of any number of tasks necessary and yet the weight of his body, or perhaps the weight of the warm blankets, feels insurmountable at this moment.
Viktor swishes his way back from the door, Emet-Selch catching a hint of bruises left along the column of his throat, starker, brighter now both in the dim light of morning and now that the bruises have had time to settle and bloom. If he focuses, he can feel the little disruptions of aether - the tug from fetching his robes, and the silencing charm upon the door, neither of which he recalls teaching. Fondness, or something remarkably close to it, overwrites any irritation he feels at his lack of memory for a simple task, and what dredges remain are easily overwritten as Viktor lifts the blankets to clamber back into bed with him. ]
Absolutely not. [ But neither does he make an effort to rise right away; one hand goes seeking beneath the blankets, finding a thigh, sliding up to trace the line of his hip, up over his belly until he reaches Viktor's chest, pressing firmly to get him to settle near instantly instead of squirming. Until their food arrives, Emet-Selch thinks, and wills away the lethargic fog clouding his mind, weighing his limbs down. One eye cracks open again, surveying what skin he can see after nudging the blankets up and then he tugs them right back down again before the warmth can escape. ] You look like you were mauled. I hope you enjoy being the subject of at least a week of gossip.
They can say whatever they l-like so long as it does not dissuade you from doing it to me again later.
[ If he had his way, if Light did not insist upon restoring his body over and over, he would relish a more permanent bruise. A mark for a mark. A reminder he'll never lose.
Greedily, Emet-Selch grasps him, reels him in and clutches him close, like a treasure meant to be guarded, and Viktor, who for so long held his heart as something untradeable, finds he is just as hungry to be possessed. Still novel, the feeling of being mapped by his sorcerer's hands. He almost forgets that the palm settling on his chest is meant to still him once he's nestled in flush against Emet-Selch - a futile endeavor, for he is all movement once he wakes. Clutched close, Viktor can feel drowsiness threaten anew, eyelids growing heavy, his heart coaxed slow by the gentle rise and fall of Hades's chest, everything the perfect sort of warm to catch up on sleep.
He slips one foot back and tangles it between Hades's ankles, lifts a hand to clasp the palm settled over his chest, pressing fingers between fingers, not quite weaving their hands together, but nearly. ]
Mayhap once our work is done, Ryne and Gaia will allow us to borrow Eden. Bring it here. Fix their f-frost. Then, they will let us do anything without too much fuss, I imagine. [ A pause, he blinks a bit too slow, fighting sleep. ] And a-after, Coerthas.
[ He can still remember when those hills were green, lush with wildflowers. Fertile soil for farming, for wildlife. Food enough for everyone in Ishgard. Someday, they will have little to do but tangle together in bed between stints of making the reflections a bit better.
For now, though, he will settle for this. Work and stolen time stretched as far as it will go. Viktor taps a meandering rhythm against the back of Hades's hand. ]
Last night- I did not know- 'twas everything I wanted, being with you.
[ He swallows, shuts his eyes, falls silent, embarrassed by how clumsily he speaks. Words, ever failing him. After a second spent recentering, he closes his fingers around Hades's hand and brings it up to his lips to press a kiss to his palm, then one to each fingertip. ]
If you are still of a mind to- to indulge my specific requests, I w-would like to do something for you.
[ With a bit of frustration, he thinks there's very little that could convince him not to do that again if asked, save for Viktor deciding that he was done with Emet-Selch. He'd like to pretend he's a stronger man than he is, but he is sentimental to the last, and relentlessly greedy, even if Viktor would never actually call it that.
He thinks they're going to doze a few moments, until the next knock upon the door comes, but Viktor snuggles in close, winds them together near-inextricably, and Emet-Selch frowns down at him, attempting to figure out the likelihood of Viktor dozing off and forgetting to remove the silence charm upon the door. Not so drowsy he can't plot about this future they are working toward, though, so Emet-Selch allows them to linger beneath the sheets and blankets and doesn't wrench himself clear yet. ]
'Tis not so large we could not move it. [ They'd intended such a thing, in one of many potentialities. A way to deal with the damage wrought, that which they did not have as readily accessible the first time the world ended. That Eden would be used for the same purpose, just...in a different capacity, does not sting how he anticipates.
He knows he has been more exhausted countless times before, but each and every time before for the last several thousand years, his bed was not so warm, his hands were not so full. He is, frustratingly, as weak as every other man who has been foolish enough to love someone. ]
If you've a mind for reciprocation, I've no interest. [ Oh, he can almost feel Hythlodaeus cringing. Emet-Selch sighs into Viktor's curls, allowing the lazy kisses against his fingers. He cannot pretend Viktor nude and warm and affectionate doesn't have some physical impact on him, but much as he would very much enjoy allowing himself to be distracted once again, to do so is an impossibility. Not when he knows what awaits in the next bell or two. Not until he knows who. ] As distracting as you would be, my mind would be elsewhere and not on a subject half as appealing. When we've finished here, mayhap.
[ Gingerly, he does shift his hips back to at least make his interest a little less obvious. ]
[ Surprise, stone sharp, pangs high in his chest. Viktor cannot help that it smarts, hearing those words, no interest. But now, at least, he thinks he can stop himself and see the briar patch for what it is before he stumbles in and hurts them both. It helps, a little, that Emet-Selch makes an earnest attempt at hiding the proof of his interest. Viktor's voice goes soft, fond, ever so slightly patronizing. ]
Ah, Hades.
[ Viktor squeezes Emet-Selch's hand. ] Reciprocity is part of it, aye. [ Without warning, he contorts himself, twisting his spine to crane his head back and press a clumsy, smiling kiss to Emet-Selch's cheek. He tries for deadpan, but a laugh spills out of him. ] But m-maybe I just want to suck your cock.
[ Having sufficiently amused himself, he settles back in and shuts his eyes, perfectly happy to doze for a few more minutes. But, of course, it's only a few seconds before his echo makes a stuck sneeze of itself, buzzing in anticipation of an arrival that hasn't quite happened yet, but will shortly. ]
Hmm. Breakfast's n-nearly here. [ He murmurs, stretching his spine as he presses into Emet-Selch's chest, a little like a cat reluctantly stirring from its place in a sunbeam. He juts one foot out from beneath the blankets, acclimating to the chill air again. ] I'll fetch it.
Edited (words have meanings you know) 2024-12-10 08:28 (UTC)
[ He is not easily given to embarrassment, but a feeling decidedly close curls in his stomach and chest, low and hot, made worse when Viktor says his name like that. Well, at least he's not angry, or hurt, because grogginess makes him cranky and hones his already sharp edges. ]
It is a perfectly serviceable, non-exciting cock. If you've seen one, you've seen nearly any.
[ Now it's his turn to pull the covers up over their heads, wishing for the black out curtains but considering Viktor's aversion to the darkness. The blankets are an acceptable compromise. Now, all he smells is Viktor, the sheets, his flowers, the soap from last night. Dangerously, he thinks he could almost forget the outside world like this, stuck in this syrupy slow place where there's nothing outside the room.
Then, of course, Viktor stirs and Emet-Selch takes that as his cue, slowly tugging the blankets back, his robe shrugged on, shuffling sleepily toward the washbasin to heat water and wash his face in hopes that will rouse him from the fog. Why is he sore? Surely he's used some of these muscles in the past, and yet. ]
There is something we ought to discuss before I leave. [ He waits, at least, until the food is delivered, and then layers his own silence charm upon Viktor's, to be cautious. ] I've reason to believe the Ascians here do not operate in the same capacity as others or what I recall. The hero slew them, and they have since reborn.
[ He lets Viktor do the math on how old - how young they would be at this point, and starts washing his face once he's tied his hair back out of his face. ]
[ A soft snicker breathed into the pillow he's not quite ready to leave. Viktor reaches for Emet-Selch as he rolls out of bed, not to stop him, only to maintain contact for a few moments longer. He thinks to steal a few extra seconds beneath rumpled blankets, but with the body beside him gone, the warmth loses its appeal. ]
I am afraid you must now consider exactly why I find yours- [ Finally, Viktor climbs out of bed, draws his robe back up on his shoulders and ties it closed as he crosses the room. ] -so exciting.
[ Breakfast is waiting just outside the room, a kettle and covered platter sat on a gaudy rolling cart. Viktor catches a glimpse of the maid from earlier and two of her compatriots standing inconspicuously as theyu can down the far end of the hall, watching for him. Of course he smiles, waves, a wiggle of his fingers, which earns a round of bright giggles from the young women.
He chuckles to himself as he rolls the cart in, stopping to watch Hades wash his face. Remarkably slow moving, this morning. Too much wine the night before, perhaps. Before he sets to pouring tea and assembling plates, Viktor meanders over to the wash basin to flatted a palm against Hades's back and rub his shoulders. With the contact, he offers up a glancing brush of cool aether, healing magic to alleviate some of the aches and pains of too much indulgence the night before.
He settles in at the room's single round table, setting plates and cups and kettle out, and stares up at Emet-Selch. ]
I thought you were g-going to w-wait t-
[ Viktor does not bother to finish the thought. Predictably, he receives the news with a stilled, neutral expression, while his rebellious ears ease back, lopping down against the wild spiral mess of his slept on curls, evidence of his hurting heart. ]
Like Gaia. [ he murmurs. Young, like Gaia. Lost, like Gaia. Worth saving, like Gaia. ] What do you intend to d-do?
[ He does, in fact, try to consider why Viktor would find his perfectly average cock appealing and settles on the simple fact that it's the rest of him he's attracted to. Not a particularly overwhelming realization, but neither is it one he wants to examine in full detail to pour over the particulars on.
Emet-Selch thinks to point out he'd considered revising it - it would be nothing to tailor his cock to Viktor's specifications but is similarly disinclined to when there's the magic that can serve just as well. ]
I have not contacted them, yet.
[ He does not do anything so ridiculous as jump - he's perfectly aware of where Viktor is in the room and he was not snuck up on, thank you - but does stiffen when Vitkor plants a hand on his back. The stiffness bleeds out a moment later, sore muscles easing from irritating to barely notable, and before Emet-Selch can do or say anything, Viktor glides off to the table. ]
Like Gaia, though hopefully half as vexing. As to the tack to take, I think it best to be Solus, the form and person they would be most used to. If there are any of them who survived being culled, they would remember him, and if not, whatever...learnings they have used, would likely mention him. Then, situate myself as Emet-Selch and wrest control from whomever has determined themselves leader... [ Emet-Selch eyes the assortment of food and then snaps into place cream cheese, capers, and onions, already thinly sliced, and begins assembling a half-sandwich. ] These are all suppositions, I will not know more until I have spoken to them.
[ It is the best course, but that does not mean Viktor particularly likes it. Solus. His own feelings aside, he cannot help but worry about the weight that form, that mindset, that role sets upon Emet-Selch's shoulders. Solus is Hades. Hades is Solus. Yet Solus is a creature forged from duty and despair, a vessel of violence, and Hades, this Hades is still only just discovering himself. The last thing any of them need, reborn souls or Hades, himself, is too much of Zodiark's blood-drenched burden. ]
Aye, 'tis the right start.
[ Viktor's gaze falls to their breakfast, then flicks back up to settle on Emet-Selch. He will not let him slip back into old habits. He will not lose him to the millennia of cruel instinct only just conquered. He will not allow the chance to try saving newborn souls slip by.
He reaches across the table, bypassing food to rest his hand over Emet-Selch's, fingertips tracing the lines of knuckles. ]
They will, I i-m-magine, respond best to what is already expected. A new plan to address the demise of Zodiark - which I assume they can all f-feel, whether they know what it is or not. The closer to business-as-usual, the better, aye. But. [ A breath. ] To make change, real change, there must be kindness, too. Hope. For all of you.
[ Another test of magic, another familiar thread, grasped, pulled from much, much farther away away this time. But it responds. Of course, it does, and right away. It is a fragment of his own soul, after all, that solidifies between his fingers. ]
Mayhap, once you have better assessed, once you have established yourself, a sh-shepherd could help turn them into a flock. [ Viktor sets the glossy oil slick mask of Azem down on the table between them. ] Consider it. I will fill the role, sh-should you need.
[ Emet-Selch's hand withdraws, staring at Viktor intently. Neither of them are particularly eager to see him slide Solus back on, an ill-fitting suit especially now, but as always, any mention of Solus as anything other than what was necessary rankles him. He was not kind.
Maybe to the Unsundered he could be if the situation called for it, but he'd had little to no respect for the partial-Ascians, those they raised up who only knew whatever they told them, who listened to what could have been lies and they never would have known if they were telling the truth or not. It hadn't mattered; they simply wanted to belong, wanted a glorious purpose offered to them, with powers to match. ]
I know what must be done, I know what you would prefer I do.
[ A pause, gentling incrementally as he pours himself a glass of tea just as the fizzle of magic tickles, and then Azem's mask sits upon the desk. He doesn't know what to do with the flood of genuine irritation, of anger that spikes. Logically he can assign most of it to being groggy, cranky, on edge; no small amount of it assigned to dreading what a worst-case scenario would look like when they need all the allies they can get. The blatant (or at least seeming) attempt at manipulation when he was already bringing this to Viktor stings. ]
That is, perhaps, the ideal. I would prefer to discuss the realism of what may come. [ A pause, a lingering look over the rim of his teacup. ] I would not ask for you to remove them if needs be. I am perfectly capable.
Edited (i swear im fucking done editing) 2024-12-11 07:01 (UTC)
[ Where he'd intended to lighten a burden, it seems he has only caused a graver wound. Breath caught in his throat, Viktor holds Emet-Selch's gaze a second longer before letting his attention fall to his hands, instead. ]
Of course. I have overstepped. 'Twas- 'twas not my intent. I apologize. [ Viktor flattens his palm over the mask, sending it away. Had Aepymetes been as clumsy as he is, now? Would Azem have said the right thing, right away? Perhaps, but Viktor cannot let his present inadequacy silence him. He dithers, lips parted as he attempts to string sturdier words together. ]
What I should have s-said...
[ Viktor scoops a spoonful of sugar into his glass before pouring from the kettle, fingertips settling on the lid so as not to cause any spills. ]
What I should have said is that I- I trust you implicitly. 'Twill be no easy thing, but you will do all you can.
[ Viktor sets the kettle down and dares look up at Hades again, and Viktor does not bother to hide his exhaustion. It leaves him hollow, thinking about it. But hollow does not mean incapable of getting a necessary job done. ]
P-primals did not spare children their tempering, as you know. And until my Alisaie developed her cure for it, we- I had an equal hand in the culling of tempered souls, as a member of the Flames. 'Tis...
[ His gaze falls again. There are no words. ]
I only mean to say that I hope, whatever you decide, you also know that you need never f-face those horrors alone. I will s-stand beside you, Hades, come what may.
[ He wishes, sometimes, they could go back to the simplicity of arguing. He did not particularly relish or enjoy the moments where they butted heads aggressively, but they were easier. There were clear lines drawn in the sand. Where he had the security of being right because he did not think past his own certainty. There was significantly less guilt then.
But, he thinks, that doesn't mean he was right. Nor that he was happy. ]
We both know that those examples are not the same.
[ There's no heat to his words this time, though, just exhaustion. They might be tempered. It is very likely they are, but the time difference between the shards is chaotic enough there's a small chance they're not. He doesn't know if that would make this better, or worse.
Were they tempered, though, they could resolve it. Had they ever tried, when they understood what the primals they summoned had done? Emet-Selch finds he cannot recall. Surely he, or at the very least, Lahabrea, would have recognized the signs given the summoning they orchestrated after the fact. Had they forgotten? Had Zodiark, or Elidibus simply smoothed away the memory the way one smooths away wrinkles upon bedsheets? Thoughtless, effortless? Or has it simply been so many thousands of years, the memory was inconsequential when faced with his certainty of purpose? He's not sure which option is preferable. ]
I am no stranger to handling what must needs be done. [ But even as he says it, there's no righteous tone, nothing but resignation at the potential weight of duty. ] Nor do I doubt your capacity as shepherd.
You may have been bedfellows with tragedy and suffering, but that does not m-mean you must bear their weight alone any longer. Whatever you faced in the past, here and now, you've the power to acquaint yourself with other c-courses, if you wish. I do not mean to sway you. I only offer my shoulders to share your burdens.
[ And as for everything else, well- he does not see how the slaying of innocents in the name of clemency, of the star's safety, needs its hairs split. It is what it is, tragedy they should do all in their power to avoid. He does not think himself a shepherd, either. It is a role he could pantomime, certainly, briefly, just like any mask he's chosen to wear. But he is not Aymeric or the Exarch. He is not Merylwyb or Matoya. Where has he guided anyone, save onto a battlefield? He cannot go six bells without drawing Emet-Selch into argument. The scions knew him best for nodding and killing. It is his combat prowess, his willingness to fight and die that stirs the masses, not his words, not his ideas.
At a loss, but unwilling to allow himself the luxury of moping, Viktor busies his hands with food he no longer has the appetite for, but nevertheless knows he should eat, cream cheese, fish, egg, and onion, settled neatly on a slice of bread. Emet-Selch seems halfway to surrendering to the worst possible outcome, already, and Viktor knows that he cannot allow the both of them to succumb to numbness. For a blessing, his infernal ears remain pert, alert, despite their itching desire to droop. Viktor forces himself to take a bite of his assembled toasty - and it is surprisingly good. The fish, smoky and salty, the eggs, fluffy, the onion, sharp. He makes a note to bring the combination up back at the Wandering Stairs.
And once he's chewed and swallowed, he sets the bread back down and begins to speak again. ]
Grim potentials lay before us, aye, but mustn't you first learn more before we can make plans? Once you have, tell me what you need of me and it will be done.
[ To stop himself from fidgeting, Viktor wraps both hands around his still too hot teacup. It does little good. His fingers right away set to tapping a nervous nonsense rhythm, but as he glances up to meet Emet-Selch's eye once more, his voice is steady, soft, warm. ]
If tragedy is unavoidable and all you desire in its wake is quiet... it will be yours, my love.
[ He makes a noise of acknowledgment but otherwise focuses on the same task as Viktor with grim efficiency. Pulling Solus on is not an overly taxing endeavor, but proving his claim with sufficient might and force might be and it wouldn't do to come unprepared to whatever may happen. So he eats mechanically and half-listens to what Viktor says.
The tea, at the very least, is passable. Not the best he's had, but for all of this shard's faults, tea is one of the least pressing. ]
The likelihood of their existence in any way being in any way a boon for us is ridiculously small, so much so as to be insignificant. At best, they are so unaware I need not play the part of Solus more than a day, at worst, they are dedicated to the cause with a religious fervor youth will only exacerbate.
[ My love. Like it's the easiest thing in the world, every single time. Emet-Selch imagines saying them with the same easy and comfort as Viktor does, and finds the taste sours on his tongue. He takes another bite, barely tasting the food. Too much cream cheese spread upon it, he thinks, and then takes another with careful precision to keep the onion from dragging across the cream cheese and making a mess. My love, like his life is not horrifically fleeting in direct contrast. A miserable thing, to have so short a time and spend it on someone unfit, unable to make the most of that time adequately. ]
I do not know them. They are not my friends, my colleagues. [ A pause, Emet-Selch forcibly seeming to take a moment, gentling his tone, the hard stare to something far less anticipatory of antagonism. ] They are, at best, a delay. A distraction from what we must needs accomplish. Gaia, at least, has some sense. But youths left with unchecked powers, no suitable teacher, and stars know what sort of interpretation of their former marching orders is - not ideal.
[ Dangerous, for Viktor. It is not just the necessity of eliminating them. Their families, their friends - all it takes is someone to look into that necessary work a little too hard for a rumor mill to start, for Viktor to find himself in need of explaining himself when he has no involvement in the situation. It is, he supposes, a rather ridiculous turn of events for Azem to be in that position. ]
Tread carefully while I am gone, but do be seen by as many as you are able, ideally as often as you are able. More than one at a time, if you can help it.
[ At what point does an oyster become aware of the pearl weighing upon its softest parts? Viktor watches Hades - is it still Hades or is he already donning the mask of Solus? - take no pleasure in eating, listens to his harsh suppositions, and the smoothing of his voice, his brow, as he wrests calm from beneath an impossible amount of tension. This does not feel so different from where they'd left off yesterday, before a bath had distracted them. He watches, without reaction, as Emet-Selch sets out instructions for him and feels a bit like a little dog. Something fragile; treasured, appreciated, certainly, for how pretty it is, for the warmth it affords. And tolerated when it is annoying.
Doubt, cold and heavy, makes a rock of itself in the pit of Viktor's stomach. He can no longer force himself to eat, and so he sips his tea, instead. Tucks those thoughts away for sometime later, when he does not find himself discussing the hypothetical deaths of an unknown number of children. ]
Aye, I will. And you- try not to plan so far ahead that you close doors to better ends, alright?
[ Viktor sets the cup down, but keeps his hands wrapped around it. In a soft, steady voice, he navigates to his point with care. ]
At best, they are children. Neither boons nor banes. At best, they are bright, hopeful, capable as Ryne and Gaia, as Alphinaud and Alisaie. They are, in all likelihood, f-frightened, displaced by these s-strange powers they possess. [ His hands loose from their place as he speaks, eyes searching the room while his fingers flutter, all animation. It is his own experience he draws from, painting a new landscape from his own childhood memories. ] Their home is held at the brink of something t-terrible. Their friends, their families struggle. They are ruled over by a- an... impotent little tyrant. And they want to fix it - aye, perhaps this is what they believe their lost Paradise is, for want of the truth.
And mayhap that has brought them to terrible, dangerous ends. [ Viktor shrugs, gaze settling on Emet-Selch once more. Whatever his reservations for his own role in Hades's life, whatever mask the man wears now, Viktor knows that there is kindness, brilliance, patience enough in him to find a peaceful path here. ] Or. Perhaps, those children are about to find themselves in the presence of a suitable teacher, one who might help them to feel truly understood, in spite of how much it might delay him.
[ He knows Viktor speaks from experience. To be so young and saddled with the duty and obligation Hydaelyn had thrust upon her most favored was a curse, not a blessing of light. Zodiark had not similarly blessed or cursed these children - they were simply gifted the abilities that were their due, but there was a reason why they spent countless years educating on the scale and scope of those powers.
In an ideal world, sundered as they are without any rejoinings, they will be minimally powerful. The equivalent of an ant beneath a boot. Near as soon as he has the thought, guilt swells within him, like Viktor can somehow hear how easily he slides back into old habits of thinking. They are children. It would be easier - better, in many ways, for them to simply listen to him. Emet-Selch would never consider himself to be someone particularly good with children, but he supposes that is a skillset he must hone rather quickly if he wants this not to end in violence and bloodshed.
He finishes eating, tidying with a snap before Viktor has finished, eager to get this over and done with, to find out which of the options he will encounter upon finally making contact rather than lingering in this liminal space of potential nightmare. To shrug Solus on once again takes the faintest bit of magic, but no small amount of effort. Viktor's crafted clothes melt into long robes, a quick stroke of his hand through bed-mussed hair shortens it and a second carding of his fingers through his hair forces it to lay at least somewhat neatly, how it used to.
That he mislikes wearing this form, he supposes, is a type of progress. ] I will bear your- [ he stalls, finishing off his tea while he thinks of a word that won't sound condescending when he is attempting to be genuine ] - wisdom in mind.
[ For now, he circles around to Viktor's side and after a beat of hesitation, curves fingers against Viktor's jaw enough to tilt his chin up. He balks at the idea of kissing Viktor like this - not himself, exactly, but does press a lingering kiss against Viktor's brow. How jarring, he thinks, to have someone who he would dearly miss were anything to happen to them. Thousands of years ago, when one of them would leave, there might be a joke about not getting maimed or injured while out, but there was a lightness to it; they had never expected real, world-ending danger. Now, they contended with it every day. ]
You will keep yourself safe while I am gone. Ideally, also out of trouble. Aye?
[ No small amount of heartache chases Viktor while he watches his precious, peculiar, surly Hades wane until only that dark new moon Solus zos Galvus remains. Emperor, enemy, and yet Viktor musters no fury at the sight. Again, he is only struck by how unrepulsive he finds the form sat across from him; too busy with tracing familiar movements, the way someone lost looks for signs of the familiar. And he finds them, in that voice, in the way he holds his tea cup, in the set of his brow. What tension Viktor's nerves do manage is tired, the vigilance of an old dog unwilling to muster even a woof for a noise beyond the front door.
And then, Emet-Selch accepts his words without argument. Stands and approaches, tense and tired, but not seeking a fight. It is Hades who fits his fingers beneath Viktor's chin and tips his attention up as he always does, and Viktor, the little dog, ever obedient, ever eager for a bit of attention. He shuts his eyes and savors the warmth of lips upon his forehead, even if the form that plants the kiss is one that stokes fear in his belly.
Viktor does not let him get away cleanly, lifts a hand to catch his cheek. His face is smaller, more gaunt than his righter form, his eyes more tired, but still the same lantern light Viktor so adores. What a mess he has found himself in, full of doubt, and ready to forget every warning sign, provided Emet-Selch promises to touch him, look at him again.
Maybe he is meant to be a dog. ]
Should trouble and I pass in the halls today, she will not recall m-my name or face. I promise. [ He lets his hand drop, dusts fingers over the back of Emet-Selch's gloved palm. It feels a bit silly to wish safety for an immortal older than time, and so, instead, Viktor offers him a crooked smile. ] Stay warm out there. But not so warm that you've no need of me when you return.
[ He tries for the words Viktor seems to utter as easily as breathing and finds them unable to wrest their way past the cage of his teeth, his tongue uncooperative. A kiss will have to be enough; Viktor is not overtly in danger, here, and if he goes nosing around in places he ought not to he has enough charm to smooth the way. ]
I fear the issue is there will not be a time I do not want for your warmth.
[ To have the sun again, shining its warmth in full force, to have it within his grasp whenever he chooses - that is not a gift he takes lightly this time around. The hand Viktor'd skimmed his fingers against flexes, clenches into a fist like he can hold onto the memory of that warmth and then before he says anything to ruin the moment, he flicks a portal open and strides through with a lazy little wave into the chill.
This time, when he searches, he looks properly. Finds the pastel colors of a half-dozen souls he used to know as good friends and colleagues and one among them stands out above the rest, edges faded with age.
Pashtarot sits in a dingy, miserable stone house near the center of town, among countless other dingy, miserable stone houses. Were he whole, he would likely be able to see Emet-Selch as he prowls through the room silently, but he is not, and so Emet-Selch examines his quarters unaccosted. Countless pieces of history lay strewn about without any of Pashtarot's characteristic militant neatness. Scrounged bits of a history they cannot hope to comprehend or interpret. Bastardizations of what once was.
Emet-Selch plucks up a few of the more dubiously safe relics, books, and the like and sends them directly into storage, gliding from one chilled room to the next until entering what could only be called a classroom. Desks, arranged in precise lines. Parchment and dried ink containers scattered about. This, at least, is passingly familiar.
After a few bells of work - puttering about the home, listening into conversations the imitation of Pashtarot has with the children, because they are all of them children as he'd dreaded, he deems this enough information for now. No need to reveal himself, for the time being. It would take nothing to ease this version of Pashtarot into the aetherial sea once again. A touch, and no one would question the passing of an old man in his sleep, seated by the ash-clogged fireplace.
The last of the youths leave, assigned their glorious mission of rejoining with no real clear direction on how to achieve it, all aimless, religious fervor and certainty of purpose from a man with Pashtarot's soul and none of his sense. Emet-Selch watches him dodder about, allowing him a meal, a drink, and then to settle by the fireplace. It is a kindness, he thinks, not allowing Pashtarot to exist like this, a shattered fragment so unspeakably unaligned from the past. A single finger pressed against Pashtarot's chest prompts a bleary-eyed blink at nothing, a frown of confusion, and then the life slides from him in one, long, smooth breath outward. The fragment of his soul Emet-Selch ushers back into the Source's aetherial sea gently, and then without a second look at the corpse left in its ratty seat, Emet-Selch steps back through a portal into his temporary rooms to shed Solus once again.
A gentle tug against their connection, a tap on the shoulder, a tug at the hem of Viktor's shirt, and then Emet-Selch begins to orchestrate dinner with the servants, to be brought up for them in anticipation of Viktor's return. ]
[ Whatever he'd expected from the mouth of Solus zos Galvus, from Emet-Selch, from his Hades, it hadn't been this. Viktor stares, brows lifted and lips parted slightly, nothing to say at all in response; fighting a flood of heat to his face, frankly, with a faint and crooked smile -- a whole lot of moon-eyed fluster that Emet-Selch won't even see, because he turns and disappears with a familiar flap of fingers before Viktor can do anything to stop him.
Alone again, Viktor picks through the remains of his breakfast. Then, to the adjoined quarters, to wash up properly. Though he has much to do, he still wastes a few minutes staring at his body in the room's single, floor length mirror, at the circles and splotches of red, of purple and blue, that dot his neck, his chest, his thighs. How ravenous Hades had been, how diligent in claiming what was his. And stars, how Viktor had loved it - how hungry he is for more, even with the gloom of uncertainty still settled over him. Just for a few seconds, he brushes against the possibility of someday playing such games with Hades set into the shape of the former Emperor. A levin shock of embarrassment has him shoving that feeling down and rushing hastily through dressing, then taming his unusually wild curls.
He means to set off for the grave after that, but out in the hall he encounters one of the castle staff nervous about the state of his lord's tapestry room. Once Viktor's done seeing to a task that is little more than cleaning hanging rugs and before he can make a proper escape from the grounds, he finds himself in the main hall, where he catches the land's little lord striking a servant when his lunch is too hot for his liking.
So, with unexpected new purpose, Viktor is delayed again. He does not mind so much.
Clara is her name. A funny girl, quick to pick up that Viktor won't mind a crude joke, who might've seemed more steady were she not preoccupied with the blood oozing from her face. Once Viktor's mended the gash on her cheek, healed away the imprint of the lordling's ring beneath her eye, he insists she takes him down to the greenhouse gardens for a stroll. And there, once the two of them are joined by Alice from the day before, Viktor conveniently sits down beside a fascinating little shrub, dotted by red berries, nearly invisible amidst the other ornamental plants.
Sat on the lip of a flagstone wall, he relates a bit of old gossip his mother used to tell while mixing potions and poultices and (most importantly) tea blends for local ladies in their little kitchen in Horizon: a friend of a friend, prone to strange injuries, an unfortunate broken arm, and a husband left to make his own tea each day while she recovered; a husband who grew steadily, mysteriously, messilly more ill, until he eventually succumbed to what chirurgeons could only figure was some sort of flu.
Hushed but no less animated, Viktor informs the two of them that it was not until the widow's arm was wholly healed that she found the true cause of her husband's demise -- he'd been brewing tea with the leaves of a plant not so unlike this one right here, easily mistaken for the shrub that produced his favorite blend. A tragedy, certainly. But on the bright side, once the tainted tea leaves were finally tossed out, the young lady never suffered so much as an unusual bruise again.
He smiles, sunshine bright, as he tells them both to have care around the plants in the lordling's garden, and pats Clara's hand before parting. Trouble may have passed him in the halls, but he does not think she will quite remember his name, his face. As promised.
The grave is not terribly far from town, but enough of a trek to be annoying with the chill. For a blessing, the path up the steep hill has been swept clear, in spite of fresh fallen snow. Odd, considering the grave's age, but he needn't wonder about it long. At the crest of the hill, surrounded by snow, blanketed by familiar flowers a shade darker than Hydaelyn's blue, is a single, simple stone grave. And an elf, a wizened warrior by the look of her, clad in leathers, sword at her hip, and a curtain of gray hair.
Viktor thinks immediately, unavoidably, of Haurchefant's grave and of Francel. An expected squeeze of pain follows, but it does not stop Viktor's approach. The old elf does not turn to look until he is nearly beside her. She spares him a glance and then a longer, lingering look, expression unchanging despite her otherwise obvious surprise.
"Someone's defaced her grave," says the old elf warrior in a tone that should be inscrutable, but Viktor knows, somehow, it carries a dark, molten magma anger.
"L-let me see, then." He does not wait for her approval, and that in and of itself, seems to earn it, seems to cool some of that fire. Two careful steps forward, deftly avoiding flowers, and he needn't even lay a hand upon the grave to guess at what's changed. A smile settles on his features.
A second later, the elf confirms it, "The stone."
"Aye," Viktor lights fingers upon the Amaurotine rock, half expecting to feel some spark arcing between himself and his reflection. But no. There is nothing, and it's strange, but not. She is gone, and only her flowers remain. In place of connection to his own soul, Viktor finds warmth, impossible fondness for the sentimental old fool currently stalking about on the other side of the valley. "Nothing's de-defaced. 'Tis a gift from a f-friend. Her monument will stand for ages beyond you or I."
"Are you speaking true?" The old elf's eyes narrow, hawkish. "Your people are long-lived."
Viktor nods, meeting the elf's pale gaze and holding it as she continues her silent assessment. "And this'll last longer than th-that." A pause. "You know, she likely hates that you drag yourself up here to clear a path so seldom used."
"She is dead. Her opinion hardly matters." But the old soldier's stance relaxes at his words, just a hint of all those leathers being a touch too heavy for her shoulders.
"Terribly rude," Viktor huffs, heatless, and he thinks he hears the elf snicker under her breath. Without further comment or explanation, he plucks a blue flower from the top of the headstone. Right away, he knows something is not right. Despite appearances, the blossom is his hand is just that -- only a flower. He could crush it, he knows, and it would simply bruise and wilt in his fist.
The elf seems to recognize his consternation. "Used to call water, those."
"Water?" Viktor murmurs, amused by how fate could not be satisfied with a simple material exchange. It seems Azem's reflections are ever meant to meet. He wonders whether Hades will be amused.
He channels a bit of his own aether into the bloom as the elf relays a tale that feels all too familiar. She hadn't always been that way, their hero, but one day, she'd changed. Volatile, frightening magic. Because it didn't matter, ultimately. Not when she'd been granted the power to mete out punishment to the demon who plagued their world, put a stop to the spreading permafrost. A gift from the Mother, they'd thought. The magic had lingered for years after her passing, but the flowers seem to spend what remains of it now on simply overcoming the cold.
The elf points out a divot in the snow, a dry stream bed, once sourced by the aether from the hero's garden. Viktor glances at it, wonders how much of him it would take to set the water flowing again, then, as though Emet-Selch can sense when he's brewing up a bad idea, feels a familiar tug at his aether. His attention drifts back toward the lord's fortress.
"Your attention is required elsewhere," observes the elf.
"Aye." Viktor nods, offering out the blue flower, now shimmering with silver light. "For a special occasion, alright?"
The old warrior accepts the bloom with no small amount of reverence. Viktor parts with considerably less - a charming grin and a wave of two fingers. He doesn't meet her eye as he turns to head back down the path, and leaves a hundred questions unasked, unanswered. Better not to know, better not to connect too firmly to this reflection before he's met the soul that waits for him in the Sea.
The sun is down by the time he returns, face flush and fingers stiff from the cold. Viktor tugs off his muddy boots at the door to their quarters -- their quarters -- relieved to see Emet-Selch is himself once more. A hot meal waits, too, and he is half-starved from all his work and walking, but the first order of business is to steal a bit of warmth from Hades. ]
Cold hands. [ He announces, pressing his hands against Emet-Selch's chest, curling his knuckles into the folds of his clothes. ] What did you f-find?
[ The stew arrives before Viktor does, and Emet-Selch allows himself enough time to be quietly pleased by a bit of good planning and timing. The staff who bring the meal, on the other hand, seem quietly perplexed, because no one has seen Emet-Selch return, nor leave, and the rooms had been empty for tidying.
For all the issues he has with this shard - and oh, there are many - the stew was one he had particularly enjoyed the few times he'd come here. Garlemald's was better, of course, but this was close enough to passable. The meat is fattier than usual, which Emet-Selch chooses to take as a slight from the lordling and resolves with the faintest effort and aether. On the tray are several loaves of bread, still warm, wrapped in cloth, and an assortment of nuts, cheeses, and other snack fare. When the table is set he turns to the fireplace, stoking the dull glowing embers there and adding fresh logs, fodder, until it fairly blazes and the room goes from miserably cold to just chill, warming.
He could do with a bath again, but it isn't strictly speaking necessary just yet; more than that, perhaps a little embarrassingly, he would much prefer Viktor joins him. Clambering back into bed bath-warm and beneath clean sheets before they deal with the inevitability of tomorrow sounds downright pleasant.
The sun sets outside, and rises indoors the moment Viktor arrives, making a beeline to press icy cold hands into the cloth covering Emet-Selch's torso. It is, he thinks wryly, not nearly thick enough for how chilled Viktor's fingers are. This close Emet-Selch is able to look him over - no new wounds, no bruises, but the faint scent of magic on him, just enough it makes his nose itch, threatens a sneeze before he marshalls himself back under control. ]
If only there were a surplus of fire crystals and a fireplace one could warm themselves with.
[ He doesn't make any effort to wrest himself away, though, allowing Viktor to bask in the scant warmth he can offer for a few moments while he mulls over the answer. ]
An old man attempting to teach fragments about a past even he did not truly comprehend. The rest is as I thought. Youths, following one they considered a teacher, now lacking one. We can speak on it tomorrow. [ Tonight, he will allow them to find the body, to grieve a man taken by old age instead of battle, and in the morning, he thinks they will be more amenable to a different tack. ] Were you successful? If you've finished thawing there is stew, and the bread ought to still be warm. I would like to eat before it goes cold.
[ As if either of them could not warm it back up again. ]
[ And Viktor seems content to linger right where he is, unfussed with efficiency when closeness is a far greater prize. He leans in indulgent as Emet-Selch speaks, stealing a bit more of his space, liking the way his chest rumbles in time with his voice. Not hard to guess at the direction of his day, though the news does cultivate more difficult questions than satisfying answers. Viktor tips his chin up, brows high on his forehead, and runs through a few of the most pressing queries flitting through his mind.
None of them matter right now, ultimately. The children are alive, even if one old Ascian is not. There is no urgency in Hades's voice, only a day weary weight on his features that Viktor admits to himself is quite charming. Something, he finds, he wishes to soothe, not exacerbate. ]
Then let's put some food in you, f-first and foremost.
[ Viktor drifts away, but not before freeing a still chilly hand to tuck a few stray strands of hair out of Emet-Selch's face. It is, he thinks, trying not to waste too much more time, unbearably nice to have home be a person. ]
Thank you for organizing supper. [ Finally, as he peels himself out of outer robes, he sweeps over to the sink basin to wash his hands. ] I was... not successful, no. [ After drying, it's to the table, where he first picks up a square of hard cheese and pops it in his mouth, then holds his palm over the kettle. Of course, he talks with his mouth full. ] It seems there is little of her l-left in her flowers. They were once quite potent, I've been told.
[ Viktor pauses to press his awareness to the aether of the tea kettle. Metal, water, leaves become as thread in his mind, a sensation that, after moons of practice, is only just becoming mundane. He picks at individual strands, allows information to spill across his senses - a story laid out in abstract, for him to interpret. Reading tea leaves, he muses to himself, decides there is nothing untoward about the contents of the kettle (thanks the stars that his bit of effort at good will was not turned against them), and pours cups for Emet-Selch and then himself. ]
Now, they are barely more than ordinary blooms. What is left of their power is spent on persisting through the c-cold, near as I can tell. I've a few theories on that, I s-suppose. [ He sits, looks to Emet-Selch, waiting for him to join. ] But now, 'tis all the more necessary I see her in the Sea.
[ He supposes there will come a time where he gets used to this. There won't be one where he ever takes such closeness for granted, but it will be less - he's not surprised exactly, not startled. He doesn't know what he is in that moment, Viktor nestling in close and just as Emet-Selch resolves himself to reach back out to press a hand against the small of his back, Viktor's flitting off again after a brush of fingers through his hair, always in motion, Emet-Selch too slow. ]
Organizing.
[ That's a bit of a generous summation, he thinks, watching Viktor hover a hand over the kettle, puzzling out what he's attempting to do before giving up and giving it a proper glance. Against his will, a smirk curves his lips. ]
Are we in danger of being poisoned? It's been at least a decade since anyone tried with any real intent but that would be a change of pace.
[ Viktor doesn't sense anything wrong with the tea, it seems, as he pours them both glasses and Emet-Selch does a quick round of the room to re-establish the layers of enchantment and charms he has to grant them real privacy, then strides over to the other open seat. Barely, he resists the urge to hide a groan as he sits. A few bells of walking is nothing, and yet he is not possessed anymore of Solus' body, one honed for war, but his own, far more comfortable sat contorted in a chair studying. ]
My dealings here were relatively minimal the last few lifetimes. I knew of her, in the same way, I knew of any of the thorns in our sides, but I was not as...we shall say well-acquainted as I was with others.
[ Plucking a loaf from the stack and summoning a knife thoughtlessly to begin slicing neat, even pieces off of it to dunk, Emet-Selch is pleased he keeps a reasonably even tone and simply looks at Viktor, nonchalant. ] Is there some burning question you would ask of her?
I do not th-think we are. [ He meets that smirk with one of his broad sunshine smiles, skewing crooked with mischief. His gaze darts toward the door. Force of habit - he knows Hades has seen to their privacy here, and even if he hadn't, they are in little danger. Strange, to not find himself in need of protecting a companion. ] But I may have taught the servants of the deadly t-treasure trove their lord does not realize he keeps in his garden. And I have learnt well that I c-cannot predict how others will act.
[ Perhaps funny coming from the one who, between the two of them, has locked inside of him the capacity to do exactly that - choices, possibilities, potentials, laid out upon splitting threads. But that is the charm of people, they've got a knack for picking the most surprising choices. He doubts that Clara or Alice would repay his healing in so vicious a way, but in places like this the walls have ears, and it is a fool who fails to separate their hope from the reality of things.
He selects a nut to snack on, still browsing the evening's offerings and not quite setting in on the meal proper, yet. ]
Just so? [ Viktor glances up. ] At least I've no reason to be jealous over an old flame, then. [ His grin goes positively devilish, then settles as he watches Hades slice bread. ]
Not a specific question, no. Though I do w-wonder at her choice in... friends. [ His brows beetle. ] No, I've a request of her.
[ With considerably less care or decorum than Hades, Viktor selects a loaf for himself, tears it in half, and then into smaller pieces. With a piece of bread pinched between two fingers, he hesitates, unsure of whether he is about to cause some sort of unforeseen heartache or stumbled them into another argument. It is, he decides, better to be honest; he would rather navigate the difficult than lock it away for fear of the upset it might cause. He does not realize just how far he has come in the last ten thousand years in that regard. ]
One of the th-things I glimpsed in... Aepymetes's memories was- he was showing a student- Elidibus, actually, I think - a bit of spellwork of his own make. 'Twas a bit like attuning to an aetheryte, but a trade of aether between souls. For movement, aye? You are... probably familiar? You were his example. At the time, there was some c-concern that the aether would... snap together. [ A rejoining, Elidibus had said. ] But. Aepymetes had said it could be avoided with... practice.
[ Viktor puts his attention squarely on the stew set before him, dips a torn hunk of bread into the broth. Aepymetes had set the path of Viktor's fall through their memories. He would not have let Viktor linger so long in that one if it had not been for good reason. ]
I intend to ask her if she might do a trade with me.
Edited (too aggressive with the italics) 2024-12-16 07:27 (UTC)
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[ He cannot help but sass back, though when Emet-Selch closes an arm around his waist to draw him in, it rather dampens the desire to give him any trouble at all. A hum, low and pleased, rolls out of him as he feels his shoulder blades press to skin. Embraced wholly, every ilm of him cradled by warmth, his skin prickles where they've slotted together, matched pieces.
And in the next breath, in the heartbeat of silence that follows, doubt bubbles up in the hollow of his chest; his lot is to serve, not receive such decadence. He is undeserving, has been spoiled, and the star will take its due for this excess.
Viktor shuts his eyes more tightly, lights his fingers on the back of the palm draped over his stomach, and pushes back on that feeling. This is worth it, and it will not be taken from him so easily.
Hades asks a question, and Viktor remembers to breathe. The tension set into his muscles unwinds, and he echoes the yawn, unable to help himself. ]
Our... kitchen, maybe. [ He offers, low and thoughtful, welcoming the distraction from darker thoughts. ] Our cups and plates. Our hearth. Our window garden. Our bath. [ Each item he lists draws a bit more tension out of him, and he echoes Emet-Selch's yawn, unable to help himself. ] Your shoebill. But, our... [ He starts to drift toward dreaming, voice going quiet as he slips into unconsciousness. ] ...little sprouts.
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Our is a dangerous word, he thinks, curving himself tighter around Viktor the sleeper his voice gets, daring to hook his fingers in Viktor's after a little patting about, index finger and middle curved loosely with Viktor's. ]
Hm. [ A hum, a murmur of acknowledgment, waiting until Viktor finally dozes off, his breathing evening out before Emet-Selch dares to tighten his grip around Viktor, tugging the blankets in around them even tighter. To lose this will be unbearable. Losing everything once had fundamentally cracked and broken something within him as a person; he'd known that then, but hadn't realized to what extent until lifetimes later. He wants, insanely, to start searching for Meteion. To take her out now, rather than waiting for her to subsume the world and hope they've salvaged enough to eke out a victory. Impossible, of course - he doesn't know where to begin searching, but the thought itches.
For now, he contents himself with memorizing this: the weight of the blankets tucked around them. Viktor's breathing as it settles into sleep. The scent of his curls, and beneath that, him, the warmth of his body and the malms of bare skin. It is enough. It has to be, for now. ]
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He would be quite okay with that.
Except, they've got work to do. He tips his head back and catches sight of sunlight creeping in at the edges of heavy curtains. Still morning.
It is not often that he is awake before Emet-Selch. Hades has always been the last to doze, the first to stir, and Viktor himself cannot ever seem to fight off sleep long in his presence. In fact, he briefly considers shutting his eyes and scraping another bell's worth of sleep, but a rare opportunity has been set before him.
After untangling their twined fingers, he turns in Hades's grasp. Unsurprisingly, the palms gliding over his body as he moves might as well be steel on flint, sparking fire beneath bare skin. Incredible, ridiculous, how quickly an aching hunger comes to life in his stomach. He ignores it for now, content to simply study Hades as he sleeps, the dense fan of white lashes, the serene stillness of his expression while his mind is too busy untangling dreams to be burdened by his usual busy thoughts. The desire to press fingers to his features the way pilgrims lay hands on stone saints is near overwhelming. Viktor holds back, but doesn't refrain from indulging entirely.
At risk of waking him, Viktor bobs in to plant light kisses on his mouth, his cheek, his chin. Then, soft, barely even a whisper, ] It is easier to bloom with you in my life.
[ Hades is, Viktor thinks, rarely impressed with his romantic nonsense. But perhaps if he says it enough, if he whispers truths to Hades while he sleeps, it will untangle some of those wretched knots that seem to plague his mind every day. Easy to hope for, at least. Viktor leans in to steal another kiss, but a rap at the door interrupts him.
Just one.
Startled, annoyed, Viktor lifts a hand, grasps a thrumming thread of aether and stills it with a twist of his fingers, muting the door. He gives himself a moment to be shocked at what he's done, muscle memory far older than he is stirring to life suddenly. Viktor stares up at his lifted hand, fingers bent as though curling yarn between them, and lowers it slowly to smooth down their blankets. ]
Sleep. [ he murmurs, tucking a few fallen strands of platinum out of Hades's face. Out of bed is the absolute last place in the world Viktor wants to be, but he slips away from Hades's grasp, deposits his feet on the floor, and shivers immediately. Before he shoves himself out of bed entirely, Viktor reaches for another thread - a familiar one, a room away. His patchwork robe. A tug is all it takes, as though the thing wishes to be on his body. One second, he is naked, and the next, he isn't.
Viktor tries not to look to pleased with himself as, finally, he rises, tying off his robe as he crosses the room to answer the door.
The maid waiting at the door greets him with widened eyes, her attention falling immediately to the bruises dotting his neck.
Oh. Right.
Thankfully, the maid soldiers on with her duties. They settle on breakfast, smoked fish, eggs, and bread, the strongest tea they have, to be brought up and left by the door. Viktor is all too glad to send her on her way, shuts the still silenced door behind him, and hurries back to bed, ghosting fingers over the marks Hades had left on his skin.
He could get their day started, draw back curtains, fetch a change of clothes, stoke the fireplace. Instead, he shrugs off his robe and climbs back into bed, seeking to leech warmth from the beloved body still wound up beneath the sheets. Quiet, knowing the answer he will get, already, he asks, ] What if we just s-stayed in bed all day, instead?
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The body within the bed shifts, starts to extricate itself and Emet-Selch makes a vaguely disgruntled sound into the pillow. The cold strikes him first, a sharp awareness borne from the lack of thick pajamas from throat to ankles. He tugs at the blankets and nestles closer within them, letting Viktor handle letting in - ah.
The dream crumbles away to nothing but insubstantial impressions, and Emet-Selch slowly wrests his eyes open, taking in the sight of Viktor in his patchwork robe at the door and the person outside, decidedly not Hythlodaeus. The disappointment he expects does not manifest; there's only a lingering grogginess from sleep debt needing repayment. He has, he thinks, slept through the chronometer's alarum. Or, more likely, he simply forgot to schedule it, far too distracted with watching Viktor do absolutely nothing. Mortifying.
Quiet conversation is faintly audible; Emet-Selch trusts Viktor to handle putting a meal together, given how many they've taken together. He ought to get up. Ought to wrest himself from the bed and take care of any number of tasks necessary and yet the weight of his body, or perhaps the weight of the warm blankets, feels insurmountable at this moment.
Viktor swishes his way back from the door, Emet-Selch catching a hint of bruises left along the column of his throat, starker, brighter now both in the dim light of morning and now that the bruises have had time to settle and bloom. If he focuses, he can feel the little disruptions of aether - the tug from fetching his robes, and the silencing charm upon the door, neither of which he recalls teaching. Fondness, or something remarkably close to it, overwrites any irritation he feels at his lack of memory for a simple task, and what dredges remain are easily overwritten as Viktor lifts the blankets to clamber back into bed with him. ]
Absolutely not. [ But neither does he make an effort to rise right away; one hand goes seeking beneath the blankets, finding a thigh, sliding up to trace the line of his hip, up over his belly until he reaches Viktor's chest, pressing firmly to get him to settle near instantly instead of squirming. Until their food arrives, Emet-Selch thinks, and wills away the lethargic fog clouding his mind, weighing his limbs down. One eye cracks open again, surveying what skin he can see after nudging the blankets up and then he tugs them right back down again before the warmth can escape. ] You look like you were mauled. I hope you enjoy being the subject of at least a week of gossip.
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[ If he had his way, if Light did not insist upon restoring his body over and over, he would relish a more permanent bruise. A mark for a mark. A reminder he'll never lose.
Greedily, Emet-Selch grasps him, reels him in and clutches him close, like a treasure meant to be guarded, and Viktor, who for so long held his heart as something untradeable, finds he is just as hungry to be possessed. Still novel, the feeling of being mapped by his sorcerer's hands. He almost forgets that the palm settling on his chest is meant to still him once he's nestled in flush against Emet-Selch - a futile endeavor, for he is all movement once he wakes. Clutched close, Viktor can feel drowsiness threaten anew, eyelids growing heavy, his heart coaxed slow by the gentle rise and fall of Hades's chest, everything the perfect sort of warm to catch up on sleep.
He slips one foot back and tangles it between Hades's ankles, lifts a hand to clasp the palm settled over his chest, pressing fingers between fingers, not quite weaving their hands together, but nearly. ]
Mayhap once our work is done, Ryne and Gaia will allow us to borrow Eden. Bring it here. Fix their f-frost. Then, they will let us do anything without too much fuss, I imagine. [ A pause, he blinks a bit too slow, fighting sleep. ] And a-after, Coerthas.
[ He can still remember when those hills were green, lush with wildflowers. Fertile soil for farming, for wildlife. Food enough for everyone in Ishgard. Someday, they will have little to do but tangle together in bed between stints of making the reflections a bit better.
For now, though, he will settle for this. Work and stolen time stretched as far as it will go. Viktor taps a meandering rhythm against the back of Hades's hand. ]
Last night- I did not know- 'twas everything I wanted, being with you.
[ He swallows, shuts his eyes, falls silent, embarrassed by how clumsily he speaks. Words, ever failing him. After a second spent recentering, he closes his fingers around Hades's hand and brings it up to his lips to press a kiss to his palm, then one to each fingertip. ]
If you are still of a mind to- to indulge my specific requests, I w-would like to do something for you.
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He thinks they're going to doze a few moments, until the next knock upon the door comes, but Viktor snuggles in close, winds them together near-inextricably, and Emet-Selch frowns down at him, attempting to figure out the likelihood of Viktor dozing off and forgetting to remove the silence charm upon the door. Not so drowsy he can't plot about this future they are working toward, though, so Emet-Selch allows them to linger beneath the sheets and blankets and doesn't wrench himself clear yet. ]
'Tis not so large we could not move it. [ They'd intended such a thing, in one of many potentialities. A way to deal with the damage wrought, that which they did not have as readily accessible the first time the world ended. That Eden would be used for the same purpose, just...in a different capacity, does not sting how he anticipates.
He knows he has been more exhausted countless times before, but each and every time before for the last several thousand years, his bed was not so warm, his hands were not so full. He is, frustratingly, as weak as every other man who has been foolish enough to love someone. ]
If you've a mind for reciprocation, I've no interest. [ Oh, he can almost feel Hythlodaeus cringing. Emet-Selch sighs into Viktor's curls, allowing the lazy kisses against his fingers. He cannot pretend Viktor nude and warm and affectionate doesn't have some physical impact on him, but much as he would very much enjoy allowing himself to be distracted once again, to do so is an impossibility. Not when he knows what awaits in the next bell or two. Not until he knows who. ] As distracting as you would be, my mind would be elsewhere and not on a subject half as appealing. When we've finished here, mayhap.
[ Gingerly, he does shift his hips back to at least make his interest a little less obvious. ]
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Ah, Hades.
[ Viktor squeezes Emet-Selch's hand. ] Reciprocity is part of it, aye. [ Without warning, he contorts himself, twisting his spine to crane his head back and press a clumsy, smiling kiss to Emet-Selch's cheek. He tries for deadpan, but a laugh spills out of him. ] But m-maybe I just want to suck your cock.
[ Having sufficiently amused himself, he settles back in and shuts his eyes, perfectly happy to doze for a few more minutes. But, of course, it's only a few seconds before his echo makes a stuck sneeze of itself, buzzing in anticipation of an arrival that hasn't quite happened yet, but will shortly. ]
Hmm. Breakfast's n-nearly here. [ He murmurs, stretching his spine as he presses into Emet-Selch's chest, a little like a cat reluctantly stirring from its place in a sunbeam. He juts one foot out from beneath the blankets, acclimating to the chill air again. ] I'll fetch it.
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It is a perfectly serviceable, non-exciting cock. If you've seen one, you've seen nearly any.
[ Now it's his turn to pull the covers up over their heads, wishing for the black out curtains but considering Viktor's aversion to the darkness. The blankets are an acceptable compromise. Now, all he smells is Viktor, the sheets, his flowers, the soap from last night. Dangerously, he thinks he could almost forget the outside world like this, stuck in this syrupy slow place where there's nothing outside the room.
Then, of course, Viktor stirs and Emet-Selch takes that as his cue, slowly tugging the blankets back, his robe shrugged on, shuffling sleepily toward the washbasin to heat water and wash his face in hopes that will rouse him from the fog. Why is he sore? Surely he's used some of these muscles in the past, and yet. ]
There is something we ought to discuss before I leave. [ He waits, at least, until the food is delivered, and then layers his own silence charm upon Viktor's, to be cautious. ] I've reason to believe the Ascians here do not operate in the same capacity as others or what I recall. The hero slew them, and they have since reborn.
[ He lets Viktor do the math on how old - how young they would be at this point, and starts washing his face once he's tied his hair back out of his face. ]
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[ A soft snicker breathed into the pillow he's not quite ready to leave. Viktor reaches for Emet-Selch as he rolls out of bed, not to stop him, only to maintain contact for a few moments longer. He thinks to steal a few extra seconds beneath rumpled blankets, but with the body beside him gone, the warmth loses its appeal. ]
I am afraid you must now consider exactly why I find yours- [ Finally, Viktor climbs out of bed, draws his robe back up on his shoulders and ties it closed as he crosses the room. ] -so exciting.
[ Breakfast is waiting just outside the room, a kettle and covered platter sat on a gaudy rolling cart. Viktor catches a glimpse of the maid from earlier and two of her compatriots standing inconspicuously as theyu can down the far end of the hall, watching for him. Of course he smiles, waves, a wiggle of his fingers, which earns a round of bright giggles from the young women.
He chuckles to himself as he rolls the cart in, stopping to watch Hades wash his face. Remarkably slow moving, this morning. Too much wine the night before, perhaps. Before he sets to pouring tea and assembling plates, Viktor meanders over to the wash basin to flatted a palm against Hades's back and rub his shoulders. With the contact, he offers up a glancing brush of cool aether, healing magic to alleviate some of the aches and pains of too much indulgence the night before.
He settles in at the room's single round table, setting plates and cups and kettle out, and stares up at Emet-Selch. ]
I thought you were g-going to w-wait t-
[ Viktor does not bother to finish the thought. Predictably, he receives the news with a stilled, neutral expression, while his rebellious ears ease back, lopping down against the wild spiral mess of his slept on curls, evidence of his hurting heart. ]
Like Gaia. [ he murmurs. Young, like Gaia. Lost, like Gaia. Worth saving, like Gaia. ] What do you intend to d-do?
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Emet-Selch thinks to point out he'd considered revising it - it would be nothing to tailor his cock to Viktor's specifications but is similarly disinclined to when there's the magic that can serve just as well. ]
I have not contacted them, yet.
[ He does not do anything so ridiculous as jump - he's perfectly aware of where Viktor is in the room and he was not snuck up on, thank you - but does stiffen when Vitkor plants a hand on his back. The stiffness bleeds out a moment later, sore muscles easing from irritating to barely notable, and before Emet-Selch can do or say anything, Viktor glides off to the table. ]
Like Gaia, though hopefully half as vexing. As to the tack to take, I think it best to be Solus, the form and person they would be most used to. If there are any of them who survived being culled, they would remember him, and if not, whatever...learnings they have used, would likely mention him. Then, situate myself as Emet-Selch and wrest control from whomever has determined themselves leader... [ Emet-Selch eyes the assortment of food and then snaps into place cream cheese, capers, and onions, already thinly sliced, and begins assembling a half-sandwich. ] These are all suppositions, I will not know more until I have spoken to them.
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Aye, 'tis the right start.
[ Viktor's gaze falls to their breakfast, then flicks back up to settle on Emet-Selch. He will not let him slip back into old habits. He will not lose him to the millennia of cruel instinct only just conquered. He will not allow the chance to try saving newborn souls slip by.
He reaches across the table, bypassing food to rest his hand over Emet-Selch's, fingertips tracing the lines of knuckles. ]
They will, I i-m-magine, respond best to what is already expected. A new plan to address the demise of Zodiark - which I assume they can all f-feel, whether they know what it is or not. The closer to business-as-usual, the better, aye. But. [ A breath. ] To make change, real change, there must be kindness, too. Hope. For all of you.
[ Another test of magic, another familiar thread, grasped, pulled from much, much farther away away this time. But it responds. Of course, it does, and right away. It is a fragment of his own soul, after all, that solidifies between his fingers. ]
Mayhap, once you have better assessed, once you have established yourself, a sh-shepherd could help turn them into a flock. [ Viktor sets the glossy oil slick mask of Azem down on the table between them. ] Consider it. I will fill the role, sh-should you need.
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[ Emet-Selch's hand withdraws, staring at Viktor intently. Neither of them are particularly eager to see him slide Solus back on, an ill-fitting suit especially now, but as always, any mention of Solus as anything other than what was necessary rankles him. He was not kind.
Maybe to the Unsundered he could be if the situation called for it, but he'd had little to no respect for the partial-Ascians, those they raised up who only knew whatever they told them, who listened to what could have been lies and they never would have known if they were telling the truth or not. It hadn't mattered; they simply wanted to belong, wanted a glorious purpose offered to them, with powers to match. ]
I know what must be done, I know what you would prefer I do.
[ A pause, gentling incrementally as he pours himself a glass of tea just as the fizzle of magic tickles, and then Azem's mask sits upon the desk. He doesn't know what to do with the flood of genuine irritation, of anger that spikes. Logically he can assign most of it to being groggy, cranky, on edge; no small amount of it assigned to dreading what a worst-case scenario would look like when they need all the allies they can get. The blatant (or at least seeming) attempt at manipulation when he was already bringing this to Viktor stings. ]
That is, perhaps, the ideal. I would prefer to discuss the realism of what may come. [ A pause, a lingering look over the rim of his teacup. ] I would not ask for you to remove them if needs be. I am perfectly capable.
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Of course. I have overstepped. 'Twas- 'twas not my intent. I apologize. [ Viktor flattens his palm over the mask, sending it away. Had Aepymetes been as clumsy as he is, now? Would Azem have said the right thing, right away? Perhaps, but Viktor cannot let his present inadequacy silence him. He dithers, lips parted as he attempts to string sturdier words together. ]
What I should have s-said...
[ Viktor scoops a spoonful of sugar into his glass before pouring from the kettle, fingertips settling on the lid so as not to cause any spills. ]
What I should have said is that I- I trust you implicitly. 'Twill be no easy thing, but you will do all you can.
[ Viktor sets the kettle down and dares look up at Hades again, and Viktor does not bother to hide his exhaustion. It leaves him hollow, thinking about it. But hollow does not mean incapable of getting a necessary job done. ]
P-primals did not spare children their tempering, as you know. And until my Alisaie developed her cure for it, we- I had an equal hand in the culling of tempered souls, as a member of the Flames. 'Tis...
[ His gaze falls again. There are no words. ]
I only mean to say that I hope, whatever you decide, you also know that you need never f-face those horrors alone. I will s-stand beside you, Hades, come what may.
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But, he thinks, that doesn't mean he was right. Nor that he was happy. ]
We both know that those examples are not the same.
[ There's no heat to his words this time, though, just exhaustion. They might be tempered. It is very likely they are, but the time difference between the shards is chaotic enough there's a small chance they're not. He doesn't know if that would make this better, or worse.
Were they tempered, though, they could resolve it. Had they ever tried, when they understood what the primals they summoned had done? Emet-Selch finds he cannot recall. Surely he, or at the very least, Lahabrea, would have recognized the signs given the summoning they orchestrated after the fact. Had they forgotten? Had Zodiark, or Elidibus simply smoothed away the memory the way one smooths away wrinkles upon bedsheets? Thoughtless, effortless? Or has it simply been so many thousands of years, the memory was inconsequential when faced with his certainty of purpose? He's not sure which option is preferable. ]
I am no stranger to handling what must needs be done. [ But even as he says it, there's no righteous tone, nothing but resignation at the potential weight of duty. ] Nor do I doubt your capacity as shepherd.
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[ And as for everything else, well- he does not see how the slaying of innocents in the name of clemency, of the star's safety, needs its hairs split. It is what it is, tragedy they should do all in their power to avoid. He does not think himself a shepherd, either. It is a role he could pantomime, certainly, briefly, just like any mask he's chosen to wear. But he is not Aymeric or the Exarch. He is not Merylwyb or Matoya. Where has he guided anyone, save onto a battlefield? He cannot go six bells without drawing Emet-Selch into argument. The scions knew him best for nodding and killing. It is his combat prowess, his willingness to fight and die that stirs the masses, not his words, not his ideas.
At a loss, but unwilling to allow himself the luxury of moping, Viktor busies his hands with food he no longer has the appetite for, but nevertheless knows he should eat, cream cheese, fish, egg, and onion, settled neatly on a slice of bread. Emet-Selch seems halfway to surrendering to the worst possible outcome, already, and Viktor knows that he cannot allow the both of them to succumb to numbness. For a blessing, his infernal ears remain pert, alert, despite their itching desire to droop. Viktor forces himself to take a bite of his assembled toasty - and it is surprisingly good. The fish, smoky and salty, the eggs, fluffy, the onion, sharp. He makes a note to bring the combination up back at the Wandering Stairs.
And once he's chewed and swallowed, he sets the bread back down and begins to speak again. ]
Grim potentials lay before us, aye, but mustn't you first learn more before we can make plans? Once you have, tell me what you need of me and it will be done.
[ To stop himself from fidgeting, Viktor wraps both hands around his still too hot teacup. It does little good. His fingers right away set to tapping a nervous nonsense rhythm, but as he glances up to meet Emet-Selch's eye once more, his voice is steady, soft, warm. ]
If tragedy is unavoidable and all you desire in its wake is quiet... it will be yours, my love.
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The tea, at the very least, is passable. Not the best he's had, but for all of this shard's faults, tea is one of the least pressing. ]
The likelihood of their existence in any way being in any way a boon for us is ridiculously small, so much so as to be insignificant. At best, they are so unaware I need not play the part of Solus more than a day, at worst, they are dedicated to the cause with a religious fervor youth will only exacerbate.
[ My love. Like it's the easiest thing in the world, every single time. Emet-Selch imagines saying them with the same easy and comfort as Viktor does, and finds the taste sours on his tongue. He takes another bite, barely tasting the food. Too much cream cheese spread upon it, he thinks, and then takes another with careful precision to keep the onion from dragging across the cream cheese and making a mess. My love, like his life is not horrifically fleeting in direct contrast. A miserable thing, to have so short a time and spend it on someone unfit, unable to make the most of that time adequately. ]
I do not know them. They are not my friends, my colleagues. [ A pause, Emet-Selch forcibly seeming to take a moment, gentling his tone, the hard stare to something far less anticipatory of antagonism. ] They are, at best, a delay. A distraction from what we must needs accomplish. Gaia, at least, has some sense. But youths left with unchecked powers, no suitable teacher, and stars know what sort of interpretation of their former marching orders is - not ideal.
[ Dangerous, for Viktor. It is not just the necessity of eliminating them. Their families, their friends - all it takes is someone to look into that necessary work a little too hard for a rumor mill to start, for Viktor to find himself in need of explaining himself when he has no involvement in the situation. It is, he supposes, a rather ridiculous turn of events for Azem to be in that position. ]
Tread carefully while I am gone, but do be seen by as many as you are able, ideally as often as you are able. More than one at a time, if you can help it.
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Doubt, cold and heavy, makes a rock of itself in the pit of Viktor's stomach. He can no longer force himself to eat, and so he sips his tea, instead. Tucks those thoughts away for sometime later, when he does not find himself discussing the hypothetical deaths of an unknown number of children. ]
Aye, I will. And you- try not to plan so far ahead that you close doors to better ends, alright?
[ Viktor sets the cup down, but keeps his hands wrapped around it. In a soft, steady voice, he navigates to his point with care. ]
At best, they are children. Neither boons nor banes. At best, they are bright, hopeful, capable as Ryne and Gaia, as Alphinaud and Alisaie. They are, in all likelihood, f-frightened, displaced by these s-strange powers they possess. [ His hands loose from their place as he speaks, eyes searching the room while his fingers flutter, all animation. It is his own experience he draws from, painting a new landscape from his own childhood memories. ] Their home is held at the brink of something t-terrible. Their friends, their families struggle. They are ruled over by a- an... impotent little tyrant. And they want to fix it - aye, perhaps this is what they believe their lost Paradise is, for want of the truth.
And mayhap that has brought them to terrible, dangerous ends. [ Viktor shrugs, gaze settling on Emet-Selch once more. Whatever his reservations for his own role in Hades's life, whatever mask the man wears now, Viktor knows that there is kindness, brilliance, patience enough in him to find a peaceful path here. ] Or. Perhaps, those children are about to find themselves in the presence of a suitable teacher, one who might help them to feel truly understood, in spite of how much it might delay him.
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In an ideal world, sundered as they are without any rejoinings, they will be minimally powerful. The equivalent of an ant beneath a boot. Near as soon as he has the thought, guilt swells within him, like Viktor can somehow hear how easily he slides back into old habits of thinking. They are children. It would be easier - better, in many ways, for them to simply listen to him. Emet-Selch would never consider himself to be someone particularly good with children, but he supposes that is a skillset he must hone rather quickly if he wants this not to end in violence and bloodshed.
He finishes eating, tidying with a snap before Viktor has finished, eager to get this over and done with, to find out which of the options he will encounter upon finally making contact rather than lingering in this liminal space of potential nightmare. To shrug Solus on once again takes the faintest bit of magic, but no small amount of effort. Viktor's crafted clothes melt into long robes, a quick stroke of his hand through bed-mussed hair shortens it and a second carding of his fingers through his hair forces it to lay at least somewhat neatly, how it used to.
That he mislikes wearing this form, he supposes, is a type of progress. ] I will bear your- [ he stalls, finishing off his tea while he thinks of a word that won't sound condescending when he is attempting to be genuine ] - wisdom in mind.
[ For now, he circles around to Viktor's side and after a beat of hesitation, curves fingers against Viktor's jaw enough to tilt his chin up. He balks at the idea of kissing Viktor like this - not himself, exactly, but does press a lingering kiss against Viktor's brow. How jarring, he thinks, to have someone who he would dearly miss were anything to happen to them. Thousands of years ago, when one of them would leave, there might be a joke about not getting maimed or injured while out, but there was a lightness to it; they had never expected real, world-ending danger. Now, they contended with it every day. ]
You will keep yourself safe while I am gone. Ideally, also out of trouble. Aye?
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And then, Emet-Selch accepts his words without argument. Stands and approaches, tense and tired, but not seeking a fight. It is Hades who fits his fingers beneath Viktor's chin and tips his attention up as he always does, and Viktor, the little dog, ever obedient, ever eager for a bit of attention. He shuts his eyes and savors the warmth of lips upon his forehead, even if the form that plants the kiss is one that stokes fear in his belly.
Viktor does not let him get away cleanly, lifts a hand to catch his cheek. His face is smaller, more gaunt than his righter form, his eyes more tired, but still the same lantern light Viktor so adores. What a mess he has found himself in, full of doubt, and ready to forget every warning sign, provided Emet-Selch promises to touch him, look at him again.
Maybe he is meant to be a dog. ]
Should trouble and I pass in the halls today, she will not recall m-my name or face. I promise. [ He lets his hand drop, dusts fingers over the back of Emet-Selch's gloved palm. It feels a bit silly to wish safety for an immortal older than time, and so, instead, Viktor offers him a crooked smile. ] Stay warm out there. But not so warm that you've no need of me when you return.
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I fear the issue is there will not be a time I do not want for your warmth.
[ To have the sun again, shining its warmth in full force, to have it within his grasp whenever he chooses - that is not a gift he takes lightly this time around. The hand Viktor'd skimmed his fingers against flexes, clenches into a fist like he can hold onto the memory of that warmth and then before he says anything to ruin the moment, he flicks a portal open and strides through with a lazy little wave into the chill.
This time, when he searches, he looks properly. Finds the pastel colors of a half-dozen souls he used to know as good friends and colleagues and one among them stands out above the rest, edges faded with age.
Pashtarot sits in a dingy, miserable stone house near the center of town, among countless other dingy, miserable stone houses. Were he whole, he would likely be able to see Emet-Selch as he prowls through the room silently, but he is not, and so Emet-Selch examines his quarters unaccosted. Countless pieces of history lay strewn about without any of Pashtarot's characteristic militant neatness. Scrounged bits of a history they cannot hope to comprehend or interpret. Bastardizations of what once was.
Emet-Selch plucks up a few of the more dubiously safe relics, books, and the like and sends them directly into storage, gliding from one chilled room to the next until entering what could only be called a classroom. Desks, arranged in precise lines. Parchment and dried ink containers scattered about. This, at least, is passingly familiar.
After a few bells of work - puttering about the home, listening into conversations the imitation of Pashtarot has with the children, because they are all of them children as he'd dreaded, he deems this enough information for now. No need to reveal himself, for the time being. It would take nothing to ease this version of Pashtarot into the aetherial sea once again. A touch, and no one would question the passing of an old man in his sleep, seated by the ash-clogged fireplace.
The last of the youths leave, assigned their glorious mission of rejoining with no real clear direction on how to achieve it, all aimless, religious fervor and certainty of purpose from a man with Pashtarot's soul and none of his sense. Emet-Selch watches him dodder about, allowing him a meal, a drink, and then to settle by the fireplace. It is a kindness, he thinks, not allowing Pashtarot to exist like this, a shattered fragment so unspeakably unaligned from the past. A single finger pressed against Pashtarot's chest prompts a bleary-eyed blink at nothing, a frown of confusion, and then the life slides from him in one, long, smooth breath outward. The fragment of his soul Emet-Selch ushers back into the Source's aetherial sea gently, and then without a second look at the corpse left in its ratty seat, Emet-Selch steps back through a portal into his temporary rooms to shed Solus once again.
A gentle tug against their connection, a tap on the shoulder, a tug at the hem of Viktor's shirt, and then Emet-Selch begins to orchestrate dinner with the servants, to be brought up for them in anticipation of Viktor's return. ]
oh my god
Alone again, Viktor picks through the remains of his breakfast. Then, to the adjoined quarters, to wash up properly. Though he has much to do, he still wastes a few minutes staring at his body in the room's single, floor length mirror, at the circles and splotches of red, of purple and blue, that dot his neck, his chest, his thighs. How ravenous Hades had been, how diligent in claiming what was his. And stars, how Viktor had loved it - how hungry he is for more, even with the gloom of uncertainty still settled over him. Just for a few seconds, he brushes against the possibility of someday playing such games with Hades set into the shape of the former Emperor. A levin shock of embarrassment has him shoving that feeling down and rushing hastily through dressing, then taming his unusually wild curls.
He means to set off for the grave after that, but out in the hall he encounters one of the castle staff nervous about the state of his lord's tapestry room. Once Viktor's done seeing to a task that is little more than cleaning hanging rugs and before he can make a proper escape from the grounds, he finds himself in the main hall, where he catches the land's little lord striking a servant when his lunch is too hot for his liking.
So, with unexpected new purpose, Viktor is delayed again. He does not mind so much.
Clara is her name. A funny girl, quick to pick up that Viktor won't mind a crude joke, who might've seemed more steady were she not preoccupied with the blood oozing from her face. Once Viktor's mended the gash on her cheek, healed away the imprint of the lordling's ring beneath her eye, he insists she takes him down to the greenhouse gardens for a stroll. And there, once the two of them are joined by Alice from the day before, Viktor conveniently sits down beside a fascinating little shrub, dotted by red berries, nearly invisible amidst the other ornamental plants.
Sat on the lip of a flagstone wall, he relates a bit of old gossip his mother used to tell while mixing potions and poultices and (most importantly) tea blends for local ladies in their little kitchen in Horizon: a friend of a friend, prone to strange injuries, an unfortunate broken arm, and a husband left to make his own tea each day while she recovered; a husband who grew steadily, mysteriously, messilly more ill, until he eventually succumbed to what chirurgeons could only figure was some sort of flu.
Hushed but no less animated, Viktor informs the two of them that it was not until the widow's arm was wholly healed that she found the true cause of her husband's demise -- he'd been brewing tea with the leaves of a plant not so unlike this one right here, easily mistaken for the shrub that produced his favorite blend. A tragedy, certainly. But on the bright side, once the tainted tea leaves were finally tossed out, the young lady never suffered so much as an unusual bruise again.
He smiles, sunshine bright, as he tells them both to have care around the plants in the lordling's garden, and pats Clara's hand before parting. Trouble may have passed him in the halls, but he does not think she will quite remember his name, his face. As promised.
The grave is not terribly far from town, but enough of a trek to be annoying with the chill. For a blessing, the path up the steep hill has been swept clear, in spite of fresh fallen snow. Odd, considering the grave's age, but he needn't wonder about it long. At the crest of the hill, surrounded by snow, blanketed by familiar flowers a shade darker than Hydaelyn's blue, is a single, simple stone grave. And an elf, a wizened warrior by the look of her, clad in leathers, sword at her hip, and a curtain of gray hair.
Viktor thinks immediately, unavoidably, of Haurchefant's grave and of Francel. An expected squeeze of pain follows, but it does not stop Viktor's approach. The old elf does not turn to look until he is nearly beside her. She spares him a glance and then a longer, lingering look, expression unchanging despite her otherwise obvious surprise.
"Someone's defaced her grave," says the old elf warrior in a tone that should be inscrutable, but Viktor knows, somehow, it carries a dark, molten magma anger.
"L-let me see, then." He does not wait for her approval, and that in and of itself, seems to earn it, seems to cool some of that fire. Two careful steps forward, deftly avoiding flowers, and he needn't even lay a hand upon the grave to guess at what's changed. A smile settles on his features.
A second later, the elf confirms it, "The stone."
"Aye," Viktor lights fingers upon the Amaurotine rock, half expecting to feel some spark arcing between himself and his reflection. But no. There is nothing, and it's strange, but not. She is gone, and only her flowers remain. In place of connection to his own soul, Viktor finds warmth, impossible fondness for the sentimental old fool currently stalking about on the other side of the valley. "Nothing's de-defaced. 'Tis a gift from a f-friend. Her monument will stand for ages beyond you or I."
"Are you speaking true?" The old elf's eyes narrow, hawkish. "Your people are long-lived."
Viktor nods, meeting the elf's pale gaze and holding it as she continues her silent assessment. "And this'll last longer than th-that." A pause. "You know, she likely hates that you drag yourself up here to clear a path so seldom used."
"She is dead. Her opinion hardly matters." But the old soldier's stance relaxes at his words, just a hint of all those leathers being a touch too heavy for her shoulders.
"Terribly rude," Viktor huffs, heatless, and he thinks he hears the elf snicker under her breath. Without further comment or explanation, he plucks a blue flower from the top of the headstone. Right away, he knows something is not right. Despite appearances, the blossom is his hand is just that -- only a flower. He could crush it, he knows, and it would simply bruise and wilt in his fist.
The elf seems to recognize his consternation. "Used to call water, those."
"Water?" Viktor murmurs, amused by how fate could not be satisfied with a simple material exchange. It seems Azem's reflections are ever meant to meet. He wonders whether Hades will be amused.
He channels a bit of his own aether into the bloom as the elf relays a tale that feels all too familiar. She hadn't always been that way, their hero, but one day, she'd changed. Volatile, frightening magic. Because it didn't matter, ultimately. Not when she'd been granted the power to mete out punishment to the demon who plagued their world, put a stop to the spreading permafrost. A gift from the Mother, they'd thought. The magic had lingered for years after her passing, but the flowers seem to spend what remains of it now on simply overcoming the cold.
The elf points out a divot in the snow, a dry stream bed, once sourced by the aether from the hero's garden. Viktor glances at it, wonders how much of him it would take to set the water flowing again, then, as though Emet-Selch can sense when he's brewing up a bad idea, feels a familiar tug at his aether. His attention drifts back toward the lord's fortress.
"Your attention is required elsewhere," observes the elf.
"Aye." Viktor nods, offering out the blue flower, now shimmering with silver light. "For a special occasion, alright?"
The old warrior accepts the bloom with no small amount of reverence. Viktor parts with considerably less - a charming grin and a wave of two fingers. He doesn't meet her eye as he turns to head back down the path, and leaves a hundred questions unasked, unanswered. Better not to know, better not to connect too firmly to this reflection before he's met the soul that waits for him in the Sea.
The sun is down by the time he returns, face flush and fingers stiff from the cold. Viktor tugs off his muddy boots at the door to their quarters -- their quarters -- relieved to see Emet-Selch is himself once more. A hot meal waits, too, and he is half-starved from all his work and walking, but the first order of business is to steal a bit of warmth from Hades. ]
Cold hands. [ He announces, pressing his hands against Emet-Selch's chest, curling his knuckles into the folds of his clothes. ] What did you f-find?
EATS IT
For all the issues he has with this shard - and oh, there are many - the stew was one he had particularly enjoyed the few times he'd come here. Garlemald's was better, of course, but this was close enough to passable. The meat is fattier than usual, which Emet-Selch chooses to take as a slight from the lordling and resolves with the faintest effort and aether. On the tray are several loaves of bread, still warm, wrapped in cloth, and an assortment of nuts, cheeses, and other snack fare. When the table is set he turns to the fireplace, stoking the dull glowing embers there and adding fresh logs, fodder, until it fairly blazes and the room goes from miserably cold to just chill, warming.
He could do with a bath again, but it isn't strictly speaking necessary just yet; more than that, perhaps a little embarrassingly, he would much prefer Viktor joins him. Clambering back into bed bath-warm and beneath clean sheets before they deal with the inevitability of tomorrow sounds downright pleasant.
The sun sets outside, and rises indoors the moment Viktor arrives, making a beeline to press icy cold hands into the cloth covering Emet-Selch's torso. It is, he thinks wryly, not nearly thick enough for how chilled Viktor's fingers are. This close Emet-Selch is able to look him over - no new wounds, no bruises, but the faint scent of magic on him, just enough it makes his nose itch, threatens a sneeze before he marshalls himself back under control. ]
If only there were a surplus of fire crystals and a fireplace one could warm themselves with.
[ He doesn't make any effort to wrest himself away, though, allowing Viktor to bask in the scant warmth he can offer for a few moments while he mulls over the answer. ]
An old man attempting to teach fragments about a past even he did not truly comprehend. The rest is as I thought. Youths, following one they considered a teacher, now lacking one. We can speak on it tomorrow. [ Tonight, he will allow them to find the body, to grieve a man taken by old age instead of battle, and in the morning, he thinks they will be more amenable to a different tack. ] Were you successful? If you've finished thawing there is stew, and the bread ought to still be warm. I would like to eat before it goes cold.
[ As if either of them could not warm it back up again. ]
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[ And Viktor seems content to linger right where he is, unfussed with efficiency when closeness is a far greater prize. He leans in indulgent as Emet-Selch speaks, stealing a bit more of his space, liking the way his chest rumbles in time with his voice. Not hard to guess at the direction of his day, though the news does cultivate more difficult questions than satisfying answers. Viktor tips his chin up, brows high on his forehead, and runs through a few of the most pressing queries flitting through his mind.
None of them matter right now, ultimately. The children are alive, even if one old Ascian is not. There is no urgency in Hades's voice, only a day weary weight on his features that Viktor admits to himself is quite charming. Something, he finds, he wishes to soothe, not exacerbate. ]
Then let's put some food in you, f-first and foremost.
[ Viktor drifts away, but not before freeing a still chilly hand to tuck a few stray strands of hair out of Emet-Selch's face. It is, he thinks, trying not to waste too much more time, unbearably nice to have home be a person. ]
Thank you for organizing supper. [ Finally, as he peels himself out of outer robes, he sweeps over to the sink basin to wash his hands. ] I was... not successful, no. [ After drying, it's to the table, where he first picks up a square of hard cheese and pops it in his mouth, then holds his palm over the kettle. Of course, he talks with his mouth full. ] It seems there is little of her l-left in her flowers. They were once quite potent, I've been told.
[ Viktor pauses to press his awareness to the aether of the tea kettle. Metal, water, leaves become as thread in his mind, a sensation that, after moons of practice, is only just becoming mundane. He picks at individual strands, allows information to spill across his senses - a story laid out in abstract, for him to interpret. Reading tea leaves, he muses to himself, decides there is nothing untoward about the contents of the kettle (thanks the stars that his bit of effort at good will was not turned against them), and pours cups for Emet-Selch and then himself. ]
Now, they are barely more than ordinary blooms. What is left of their power is spent on persisting through the c-cold, near as I can tell. I've a few theories on that, I s-suppose. [ He sits, looks to Emet-Selch, waiting for him to join. ] But now, 'tis all the more necessary I see her in the Sea.
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Organizing.
[ That's a bit of a generous summation, he thinks, watching Viktor hover a hand over the kettle, puzzling out what he's attempting to do before giving up and giving it a proper glance. Against his will, a smirk curves his lips. ]
Are we in danger of being poisoned? It's been at least a decade since anyone tried with any real intent but that would be a change of pace.
[ Viktor doesn't sense anything wrong with the tea, it seems, as he pours them both glasses and Emet-Selch does a quick round of the room to re-establish the layers of enchantment and charms he has to grant them real privacy, then strides over to the other open seat. Barely, he resists the urge to hide a groan as he sits. A few bells of walking is nothing, and yet he is not possessed anymore of Solus' body, one honed for war, but his own, far more comfortable sat contorted in a chair studying. ]
My dealings here were relatively minimal the last few lifetimes. I knew of her, in the same way, I knew of any of the thorns in our sides, but I was not as...we shall say well-acquainted as I was with others.
[ Plucking a loaf from the stack and summoning a knife thoughtlessly to begin slicing neat, even pieces off of it to dunk, Emet-Selch is pleased he keeps a reasonably even tone and simply looks at Viktor, nonchalant. ] Is there some burning question you would ask of her?
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[ Perhaps funny coming from the one who, between the two of them, has locked inside of him the capacity to do exactly that - choices, possibilities, potentials, laid out upon splitting threads. But that is the charm of people, they've got a knack for picking the most surprising choices. He doubts that Clara or Alice would repay his healing in so vicious a way, but in places like this the walls have ears, and it is a fool who fails to separate their hope from the reality of things.
He selects a nut to snack on, still browsing the evening's offerings and not quite setting in on the meal proper, yet. ]
Just so? [ Viktor glances up. ] At least I've no reason to be jealous over an old flame, then. [ His grin goes positively devilish, then settles as he watches Hades slice bread. ]
Not a specific question, no. Though I do w-wonder at her choice in... friends. [ His brows beetle. ] No, I've a request of her.
[ With considerably less care or decorum than Hades, Viktor selects a loaf for himself, tears it in half, and then into smaller pieces. With a piece of bread pinched between two fingers, he hesitates, unsure of whether he is about to cause some sort of unforeseen heartache or stumbled them into another argument. It is, he decides, better to be honest; he would rather navigate the difficult than lock it away for fear of the upset it might cause. He does not realize just how far he has come in the last ten thousand years in that regard. ]
One of the th-things I glimpsed in... Aepymetes's memories was- he was showing a student- Elidibus, actually, I think - a bit of spellwork of his own make. 'Twas a bit like attuning to an aetheryte, but a trade of aether between souls. For movement, aye? You are... probably familiar? You were his example. At the time, there was some c-concern that the aether would... snap together. [ A rejoining, Elidibus had said. ] But. Aepymetes had said it could be avoided with... practice.
[ Viktor puts his attention squarely on the stew set before him, dips a torn hunk of bread into the broth. Aepymetes had set the path of Viktor's fall through their memories. He would not have let Viktor linger so long in that one if it had not been for good reason. ]
I intend to ask her if she might do a trade with me.
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your bf just wants to turn himself into a quantum computer emet-selch nbd
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lmao for some reason it replied as a whole new top level??
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forgot the rest of the caps UGHHH
this is so long sobdhshhsh
FOOD FOR ME THO also sorry viktor you're dating a dick
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