If you wish to be accosted by the unwashed masses, you may do that on your own time.
[ A sniff. He's got no interest in being waylaid when they have useful tasks to attend to, but he doesn't begrudge Viktor for the desire, even if that desire is not necessarily shared. ]
Do wh- [ The question is so out of the blue that Emet-Selch is jarred from his thoughts as effectively as if Viktor'd smacked him on the back of the head. Ah. Hythlodaeus. Of course. Emet-Selch can't blame him for asking, and glances over the two figures, lingering. ]
No. I was intentional about ensuring that could not happen again.
[ Hythlodaeus would find it terribly amusing for him to have done such a thing again, but Emet-Selch was careful. He had already erred once, and the idea of creating them after already doing that to Hythlodaeus - no. He skims through the magical makeup of both of them just to be certain, but there is nothing out of the ordinary. There was, he thinks wryly, nothing out of the ordinary with the shade of Hythlodaeus, either, but he also could not bear to look at him for periods longer than a few moments. ]
They are - for lack of a better word - programmed to act as we do. A set routine, and then retiring to bed. Were they attacked, they would manage a passable effort before ultimately expiring. They would be able to tell us who made the attempt, though.
[ So long as Emet-Selch recognizes the face that they show, anyway. He glances over to Viktor once satisfied his manifestations aren't about to accidentally gain sentience when he looks away, and then looks at Viktor, the curve of his waist, the spread of his shoulders in the robes, and swallows. The magic that settles over them prickles, like a faint cloth tossed over their heads. Emet-Selch can see through the veil to the changes Viktor's made, but the moment the enchantment falls Emet-Selch is relatively certain he goes invisible as well as Viktor, to Viktor's own eyes. ]
I've had practice in snooping about while invisible. If you are satisfied, we may leave.
[ Not happen again, he says, and Viktor does not expect the ache that threads itself between the gaps in his ribs and pulls something taut. As a rule, he tries not to ask questions he does not want to know the answer to, but supposes he must stumble into them eventually, from time to time. These copies are mere puppets. Less than mammets, as like. They will not wonder at their existence. They will not hurt when they are unamde. They would not make for fine companions for the shade hidden beneath the sea. Hythlodaeus, not Hythlodaeus, who sees the world with a clarity near to the original, who sits alone in the dark. ]
Bed together, eh? [ A faint grin. ] 'Tis quite the useful spell. [ Mumbled, filling a silence while he thinks. Not the time now, but later, he will ask about the dream thing Emet-Selch bottled up. Can it think? Could it be planted in Amaurot, cultivated into something more, something that would be whole enough for Hythlodaeus, so that he is not alone? Would it be welcome? Could the two of them figure a way to do more than that, still? Or does such thinking cross over into the sort of Wrong that stokes angry fire?
A difficult conversation. For later. For now, Viktor settles on: ] Do not let me learn it or you will never know when I am actually at-t-tending those logistics meetings in the Crystarium again.
[ And then, they're both gone. It is disorienting, watching the real Emet-Selch fade to nothing and being left with a base simulacrum. Viktor stares a moment longer, like he might glimpse some truth about the real man if he can spot some oddity in his copy, but the false Hades simply sees to his tea, entirely normal.
Invisibility feels near exactly as Viktor had expected, light as damp air on a late spring night, faintly fizzling against his skin, making him perpetually aware of its presence. ]
It's like starlight. [ Viktor says of the magic, a touch of wonder in his voice. On instinct, he reaches out for where he thinks Emet-Selch's hand still lingers - where he can feel his presence. ] I assume your s-sight means I am still visible to you. C'mon then.
[ Whether or not he manages the brush of fingertips he seeks, he turns, opens the door, and slips out into the chilly fortress. Viktor trusts that Emet-Selch will follow as he slinks light-footed down the hall, hugging walls as he turns corners, mindful of the few people still out wandering, but not so overly cautious as to slow them down. He is, plainly, practiced at sneaking - good to know he hasn't gotten rusty in the years since necessarily transforming from shadow to beacon.
Few true obstacles stand in their way. The closest thing they arrive at to trouble is Viktor needing to stop himself from giggling over a guard so disengaged from his station that he sits hunched over a romance novel, reading by candle light. With minimal fuss Viktor navigates to the inner courtyard, bringing Emet-Selch to the root cellar with the confidence of someone who has lived and worked here for years.
Annoyingly low ceiling aside, it's not unpleasant beneath the castle. Cold, but not too cold, and well kept, smelling only of earth. Viktor turns this way and that, orienting himself, and then makes his way to the sparsely stocked shelf that he is near positive hides a passageway. ]
[ When he is cruel, it is intentional. The cruelty is merited.
Given the chance, the one exception he can think of is the shade of Hythlodaeus. He had not intended cruelty in its creation, had not intended anything other than set dressing, and yet, he had been cruel, undeniably. He continues to be cruel by not grasping both hands into the illusion of Amaurot, rending it in twain.
If he were willing to be truthful, he'd know he couldn't. Being somewhat responsible for her fall weighed heavily enough; he doesn't have the wherewithal in him to destroy Amaurot again and absolutely could not muster up the ability to knowingly destroy Hythlodaeus, even if the real one sits in the aetherial sea. Neither would he ask Viktor to get his hands dirty with work Emet-Selch is too weak to manage. Too weak to kill Hythlodaeus, just cruel enough to make him linger in a half-existence because of his cowardice. ]
Useful enough, aye.
[ A distracted answer, idly thinking about all the times he'd used that spell as Solus especially, eager to escape prying eyes and have time alone to himself. Viktor, as ever, drags him from the past into the present, intentionally or not. A second, then he processes Viktor's other statement and manages a wan smile that Viktor cannot see, but may hear. ]
Why do you think I haven't taught you either? You're already a menace.
[ It does, he supposes, feel like starlight. He'd activated the spell thoughtlessly, not bothering to think or feel anything about it but forgotten that with all of this new to Viktor, to have the spell cast would not be a normal, rote part of one's day. He lingers. Lets Viktor grasp at him and makes sure he misses the first attempt, then gently corrects him, sliding his fingers along Viktor's forearm, down until their fingers twine loosely. ]
Of course. Wouldn't want to lose track of you.
[ He does, of course, toss a silence charm about the two of them just to be safe. It won't do anything if one of them does stub their toe, but it muffles the whisper of robes or the grind of boots on stone, and allows them to slip silently through the fortress. Better still, following Viktor lets Emet-Selch indulge in simply looking at him, admiring the silhouette of him from behind greedily, knowing he won't be caught doing anything as embarrassing as gazing.
Emet-Selch ducks to enter after Viktor, nose wrinkling. He hates cellars. Dark, dank little places they've no business being in when there's a perfectly warm, servicable bed awaiting them. With a particularly put-out little sigh he studies the shelf enough to memorize its rough make and then Emet-Selch obliterates the shelf with a snap and reassembles it out of the way, revealing Viktor was correct. A second passageway sits, cobwebbed, darker, danker, colder. Emet-Selch thinks again, longingly, of bed, and nudges Viktor's back. ]
[ Emet-Selch's menace finds his fingers entwined before he can slip away entirely, grasped by nothing but familiar, welcome warmth. Kept, as ever, by someone unseen. Funny, that he can feel it now. Funnier still that Emet-Selch should be concerned with losing track of him. Just as Hades swore to always answer the call of Azem, so too would Azem never conceal himself from his Emet-Selch completely.
Though chilled and tired after a long day, Viktor thinks not of heavy blankets or soft beds. Warming enough, the promise of adventure — real adventure, and not merely another necessary chore in dire need of doing to stave off the end of the world — had on a hunch, and taken not alone, but with one much beloved. Hades does not seem to share in his excitement. Later, once they've solved the mystery of this passage, Viktor will find a way to make it up to him.
With the shelf out of the way, Viktor paces deeper into the dark, catching cobwebs between his ears and swiping them away with a grumble. Before long the narrow passage widens, what little sound there is echoing deep. ]
Well. I'll need another b-bath after this. You? [ He's only half joking, but clamoring back into that oversized tub for a soak together does sound like a fine prize at the end of this excursion.
He keeps close to the wall as he moves, eventually pressing a palm to the packed earth walls and dragging fingers over the surface. Tiles. He feels tiles. ]
This calls to mind Gelmorran ruins. [ Viktor stops, calls light to his fingertips to get a closer look at what he's discovered. Glossy, black, etched with swirls — and then, out of the corner of his eye, further in the dark, something glints as it moves, many legs skittering further back into the dark.
Viktor peers back, where he knows Hades is, but cannot see. ] Extremely like Gelmorran ruins.
Eugh. Why is it whenever we go out adventuring it is to the coldest, most miserable, most spider or other wretched creature infested -
[ Now that there's no one to hear them, his complaints continue, echoing faintly in the stone halls as Emet-Selch picks his way down the stairs carefully, grimacing when he steps in something wet. What would have business being wet down here? Eugh. ]
At least one. You're mistaken if you think either of us are getting within a yalm of bed while we're- [ Oh, well. Gelmorran ruins are at least somewhat interesting. He strains to recall what, or who used to inhabit this place before the obnoxious princeling and then more pressingly, tries to recall if there are any elementals they might need to contend with. Probably not? They tended to (wisely) give him and others a wide berth, after a few encounters which ended terrifically poorly for them. Elidibus had been borderline distraught afterward; Lahabrea had absconded with one of them in the aftermath and Emet-Selch was never certain if Elidibus was aware or not. ]
You will not be overly cross with me if I simply eradicate whatever might be lurking down here, will you?
[ He has no desire to actually fight and he's relatively certain there's going to be some manner of unpleasant beastie down here. So long as it's not a person, or something or someone sentient, well, he thinks Viktor ought not have too much to protest about. Squinting into the dim lighting Viktor provides, he tries to spot any sort of torches and, upon finding none right away, impatiently opts to simply make them, a half-dozen ghostly, glowing green lights illuminating a path forward from where Viktor stands. Something skitters, loud enough he can hear it, and Emet-Selch sighs again, weary. He has cobwebs in his hair, he can feel it.]
They sell out of all the adventure rather quickly in warmer climes, you know. P-particularly hard to find on s-sun drenched sandy beaches - but we can have a l-look the next time we find ourselves at one.
[ His ears twitch, one tilting to track the sound of that something in the dark, seeking more. A second later, green light flares to life down the corridor and he turns to take in the newly illuminated path with a laugh. ]
Will I be cross?
[ Though he has no cane, no axe at his back, Viktor is hardly unarmed. He could call for Ingrimm, he knows, can picture the gnarled branch leaned in a corner of their quarters. But that hardly feels necessary down here. Instead he crouches to retrieve the dagger tucked into his boot, scanning the flickering green light for signs of unnatural movement.
He spots something, a glint of a carapace, a glimpse of something large clung to the ceiling.
What waits down here? Only vilekin? Undead? Another wretchedly arrogant necromancer, perhaps? He is, he must admit, excited to find out. Excited to delve into the dark in a way he has not been in a long, long time. ]
Emet-Selch... [ An audible grin, an incredulous arch of one brow ] You must reach them first to eradicate them. We'll talk of whether I'll be cross a-after.
[ He punctuates his words with a flick of the wrist. The dagger flashes, flies, and a second later, embeds itself with a crunch in the nasty creature stuck to the ceiling down the hall. It screeches and falls, and Viktor bounds after it, a hound scenting its hunt. ]
I fail to see how. Plenty of civilizations were built in perfectly serviceable climes. Plenty are.
[ Whatever it is that lurks down here sounds as if it has more legs than it ought to. Hythlodaeus and his pity approvals; now, more than ever Emet-Selch is certain other are some creatures that should not have seen the light of day whatsoever. Two legs - four, maximum, are perfectly serviceable. ]
Yes, I would hate to take you out for enrichment and then deprive you of it.
[ It is, he admits, good to see Viktor so easily excited. To see him without the shroud of expectation and duty, as he actually is, how he would be, potentially, without Hydaelyn's corrupting touch. Freed from the need to be performative, to re-earn a mantle he's earned in blood, sweat, and death countless times over. ]
I would rather know now so if I snap them away, you are not - [ Oh, there he goes. Emet-Selch rolls his eyes to the ceiling, a wretched mix of weary and fond, and strides after him with a far more relaxed pace. ]
You had best be throwing daggers only; otherwise, I will make you rinse before entering the bath. The last thing I want is entrails floating amongst the salts.
[ A pause, to pull a face, lip curled in disgust at the too-many-legged creature skittering with Viktor trotting after it. He ought to let Viktor have his fun, but the idea of him covered in gore is not appealing and so the moment he's close enough, he snaps the creature out of existence here, and drops it and Viktor's embedded dagger somewhere else entirely. He has all of a moment to be smug before he sees a flicker of movement and several others bleed out from the shadows, all skittering legs and shiny carapaces. Emet-Selch sighs heavily, and summons a small bundle of daggers for Viktor, smacking them against his chest. In the tone of someone who knows he's lost an argument, and with a weary, lazy little wave of his hand, ]
Aye! [ Despite knowing there will be nothing to see, Viktor still glances over his shoulder. Heedless of stealth, as though eager to let every creeping thing know right where he is, he calls back, ] And all the good adventure gets scooped up right quick.
[ This hypothesis, of course, hinges on the incredibly subjective meaning of "good adventure" and the preferences of the man defining it. A man who still looks back on his first trek into the Aurum Vale with fondness - who wants for nothing more than to delve into places rarely seen to have his mettle tested, to forge stronger bonds with those dragged into danger beside him.
Viktor skids to a stop when the vilekin disappears, disappointment dragging his ears down. He scoffs and turns. ] You speak of depriving me of enrichment and in the very next breath! Honestly. [ Not cross exactly, but certainly the sort of heatlessly fussy he hasn't had the time or luxury of being since Fandaniel erected the first of his hellish towers on the Source. He juts a finger toward the space where the arachnid used to be. ] That one still counts as my k-kill.
[ Emet-Selch presses knives into his hands, and Viktor laughs. ] Come now, d'you really think I'd get viscera on these robes? [ He would. Besides the point. He juggles the bundle of knives to his right arm, unbothered by the scurry of too many legs coming closer. ] You'll just be s-snapping them away, then? [ Viktor takes a single knife in hand. Channels aether into the blade until it's near impossible to look at straight on, brightening the passageway enough to illuminate the mob of creatures rushing forward. ] Tsk. tsk. Hardly s-sporting.
[ He flings the blade hard as he can, grinning when it slices into the encroaching mob of creatures. Like pulling a string, Viktor tugs his fingers back and turns, shielding his eyes from the gross incandescence that explodes behind him. What isn't shattered by the tear of Light through the air is stunned to stillness by the magical shockwave.
Viktor gives his head a shake. ]
This is your fault, you know. You could've cultivated a sh-shard where all they did was opera or epic p-poetry. Fewer spider-ridden p-passages, then. And we could be doing some thing you l-like.
[ The hmmmm Emet-Selch lets out may give the idea that he thinks they have very opposing ideas of what 'good adventure' might be. For all that he protests, there's a stretch of time here in the middle where he doesn't forget the weight of all they must accomplish, and what is the cost of failure, and neither does it fall to the wayside; it is simply a problem to be addressed later. For a moment, they are as close to normal as one can be in either of their positions, and it is...comfortable. Familiar, like finding an old jacket one forgot they had, sliding it on and finding it still fits. ]
There are plenty more wretched little beasties for you to play target practice with, quit whining.
[ Viktor's question, with its obvious answer of yes, you would goes unanswered save for a squinted, incredulous little look Viktor cannot even see, and a sigh, drowned out by the thwoom of magic. ]
Who's to say I didn't? Maybe it was terribly boring and so we never attempted it again. [ Emet-Selch peers over Viktor's shoulder at the damage wrought and hms, this time appreciative. Not even a bit of viscera on Viktor's robes, lovely. He amends that thought near as quick as he has it, not trusting Viktor not to go rooting about with bare hands that he would very much like to touch him later tonight while they're in bed. ]
Please tell me you don't intend to loot any corpses left over.
lmao for some reason it replied as a whole new top level??
[ A single, bright pop of laughter that spills out of Viktor at the command to stop whining, and it speaks volumes. The sort of sound that comes only with thorough knowledge of Emet-Selch's penchant for impressively dramatic soliloquy when annoyed. ]
I'll have you know, had I the time and inclination, I could turn those c-carapaces into one h-hell of an impressive piece of embroidery.
[ The same sort of iridescent black as Azem's mask. Carved and polished, stitched into a flowing robe - it'd be the sort of garment he'd wear to the sort of thing Emet-Selch would rather be doing, going to the theater or attending a gallery showing. Maybe he'll stomp back down here again sometime and harvest one to serve as a reference for when they return to the First. Maybe, someday, they will go and see shows and look at art from ages past, and Hades will tell him all the sordid little details behind every story, statue, and painting.
As it stands, though, they do have better, more important things to do. And it is late, and he, cold. So he takes the remaining daggers in both hands and unmakes them between his palms. The raw aether he winds up and tosses. It unfurls before him, now a length of simple, rough fabric that settles over the insectoid gore, offering an ichor-free walkway for the both of them. ]
M-mind where you s-step. I imagine it's fairly slick.
[ Viktor navigates with ease, of course, trudging deeper into the dark, undaunted by the seemingly endless hall. No entrance to the Sea is easy to reach in Viktor's experience, and the polished black tiles that dot the walls, floor, and ceiling tell him there's a very good chance he will find one here, should he walk long enough.
After a lengthy silence, he glances back over his shoulder. The absence behind him does not startle him, but only because he can feel Hades there. ]
What will you do... with all these entrances to the Sea, after? S-some do already have adequate guards, I suppose. D-do you intend to find all of them, shore up protections?
[ He'd intended to make something of a shooting gallery out of the hallway, to make up for the stark lack of fun he knows he's being, but once again Viktor surprises him. Distracted with the laughter, the thought of embroidery and just what it is Viktor would create, Emet-Selch almost misses the neat bit of magic he weaves from the daggers' aether.
For an absurd, insane moment, he thinks of the soldiers who'd tried to curry favor with officers, draping tarps or sheets upon mud so they could walk easily, and amends that thought; more like a suitor, sweeping off their jacket. As much as he wishes he had maintained enough hardness to stand firm in the face of this, Viktor has chiseled steadily away at the most calcified parts of him and left what's beneath tender and exposed. He steps carefully onto the pathway, robes lifted ilms above his ankles, and resolutely does not feel a little embarrassed by how pleased he is by the gesture. ]
Close them off. If I knew I would have the time... well. 'Tis almost certain I will not, and the best option is to close them all off, save for one or two which would be guarded far better than the Sharlayans' middling attempts.
[ He doesn't recall building this one, even if it is admittedly done adjacent to his taste. Doesn't recall if he even was the one to do it, or if one of the others did, or if they'd simply outsourced it and handled the last bit. Stepping through a portal from somewhere into the foyer was always his preferred method of getting around - no spiderwebs, no creepy crawlies, no dust making your nose itch fiercely. ]
'Twould be a trifle to do so, and in some cases it may have already occurred. I'd quite forgotten any of this was here. I suppose we might have built it, ages ago, but...
[ His footsteps still, looking at the walls properly and oh, of course. He can see Hydaelyn's magic streaking through the walls here, faded, but still like blue veins leading their way to the dead heart. Had she made this place, knowing he would someday walk these halls, had she known? Or was it some sort of homage to - stars. He doesn't want to think about this.
He blinks, mouth set in an unhappy little line, striding forward a touch quicker. They hit a point going low enough that the tethers of magic that reach for him in welcome are barely tinged with Her at all and he only feels a little petty at stretching his power, his awareness out like shaking out dusty old sheets, tucking the corners in. ]
Have I the time and inclination, it may be worth attempting to create a shortened path between each. A nightmare, to be certain, if anyone who ought not to have access does gain access, but far easier to transition souls from one shard to the next if they've returned to the sea, if we've a worst case scenario.
Hydaelyn spoke to the people here. [ Or, at least, she had a few favorites that she had ostensibly embraced. The old elf at his reflection's grave site had implied as much. ] Mayhap 'twas something built by a past civilization at her behest. Much the same as our Sharlayans.
[ An effort to create an open line of communication. Viktor is certain Hydaelyn would not have willingly left the other shards to die in the dark. Just as she had managed in Sharlayan, she would have called to them. Some here must have known the truth, would have been given the directive to prepare. Viktor cannot allow himself to believe otherwise, though it seems if those efforts had once borne fruit, they rotted upon the vine in the wake of this nation's slow decay.
It's something of a surprise that Viktor notices when Emet-Selch stops and hangs behind him. He cannot see it, cannot hear it, but he feels the distance in the aether between them, like the tide rolling out, waves unable to climb as far up shore. Viktor stops, studies the feeling, and does not continue again until he feels Emet-Selch drawing near once more, cool, steady comfort.
Viktor ponders Emet-Selch's words as they walk. Longs, briefly, for the far more brilliant minds of his lost friends. They would know the right tack to take, and then Viktor could get the doing of it done. Maybe his reflection here is more clever than he is. How convenient it would be, to call any soul, any reflection, for consultation.
That's what he's thinking as the passage opens up, wider and wider, until it seems the walls and ceiling disappear entirely into the dark. ]
Could you... build the passages within the Sea itself? Rather than above?
[ A pause. It truly is a question of time, of focus. Are there efforts best spent in preparation, assuming the worst, when they have already lost so much and threaten to lose a little more each time they flee? Or is the right path the one that leads them directly to Meteion? Viktor exhales, a soft, pained sound. ]
And after, once we have conquered this, there would be time to look at the nightmare of above ground logistics.
Oh, certainly. Never one to leave well enough alone.
[ There's far less bitterness in his tone than he expects there to be, though. Of course Hydaelyn would speak to her chosen, of course they would build these ridiculous little paths down to her, unknowing of the ones that existed before, and unable to simply transport themselves within. Why she had not simply had her chosen attuned to the Mothercrystal to expedite the process, he doesn't know. Were he in her position, it is what he would have done, saving countless years of effort digging down into nothingness, making cobweb-encrusted little tunnels like animals.
He cannot make sense of her whims, though, and to attempt to feels like a losing battle. Viktor stills, like he can feel Emet-Selch having paused, and Emet-Selch measures the response, coming closer, watching Viktor start back up again. He can feel it, then, some intangible thing that gives away Emet-Selch's presence. This, too, is pleasing in a way he doesn't expect, and he reaches back out to grasp Viktor's hand loosely. ]
That may not be a solution you will like. What you suggest is, in effect, a rejoining.
[ One they'd considered, long ago in the past. If they could not rejoin the shards, Lahabrea had suggested Emet-Selch rejoin the seas instead, forcibly causing a rejoining through them. Emet-Selch had objected, with no hesitation. While it would serve their ends, to fundamentally alter the aetherial sea put far too much at risk; there was no telling what could go wrong if they did such a thing. To say nothing of Hydaelyn Herself; she would fight them, undoubtedly.
And where would the partially rejoined souls go? What would happen to them if they were to mix and meld with pieces, fragments not their own? Lahabrea had not liked the answer, had dedicated no small amount of time to making his own underlings do research as if Emet-Selch would not stop him the moment he got too ambitious for his own good, and Eldibus had left the two of them to sort themselves out, recusing himself from petty arguments. ]
The risk with joining the seas as opposed to the area above is one cannot control how the souls would...meld. Fragments calling to each other without rhyme or reason, a cup filled to bursting suddenly with holes scattered about, dribbling the Sea, risking spillage - no. No veil would protect them from aught that could occur; we may cause more damage than we could ever expect.
[ The walls open up, still murky and dark and Emet-Selch sighs, snapping more ghostly lights to illuminate the path forward. This close to the sea, the air hums with magic, almost thick with it, so much so that if he concentrates, it feels like attempting to walk through syrup. ]
For all that She styled Herself and Her minions as of light she certainly seemed to have an aversion to putting any in her little tunnels down.
[ Now it's Viktor's turn to hmm - a thoughtful sound, considering with no clear conclusion in sight. Rejoining, of course, he mislikes on instinct, but there is something lovely in the idea of souls splashing together, mingling, of beauty made in the chaos. Love finding itself beyond death, joining, trading pieces to cement what had been in life. A perpetual record, writ upon the soul, of all the people who mattered most.
He gives the fingers twined with his a squeeze. In word and in touch, Emet-Selch is a grounding presence, the earth to Viktor's sky. An anchor, keeping his thoughts focused, his body warm. Viktor is endlessly thankful for him.
Maybe his own ideas are too romantic. He can allow that much. Too much like poetry for reality - too fundamental a change to the make of their star. ]
I see. 'Tis something that would doubtless require extensive research, then. More than we've the time for.
[ Except, he supposes that if anyone should be a research subject for these overly romantic theories of his, it is him. The way he bumps up against the reflections of his own soul, it's almost meant to be. He and Ardbert had joined only when the both of them had willed it. Perhaps it will be the same with the shard that lingers upon this layer. Or maybe not. They will know soon, either way.
Green light flickers to life around them, and Viktor again is reminded of the Antitower, of the Palace of the Dead. Inbetween places, spots after living and before death. Emet-Selch speaks of Viktor's Mother, and one of his ears turns. He is quiet for a few paces, even his footsteps muffled by magic still.
Eventually, though, he speaks... ]
That was the point. [ Viktor runs his thumb over Emet-Selch's knuckles. ] Despite... everything, Venat knew her world to be a paradise. [ She had only glimpsed what Hermes, Hythlodaeus, and Aepymetes had lived. The imperfections, hidden by a society that demanded conformity, that drew stark lines around the shape a soul was allowed to take to still be considered a soul. ] And she thought... suffering was the key to defeating despair. [ He glances back at nothing. There is no smile on his face, no frown. He simply states what he knows, soul deep, to be true. ] Hydaelyn needed beacons. Light that gutters the moment darkness falls will be snuffed by Meteion's song. [ There is no judgment in his voice. No exhaustion. Just acceptance. ] 'Tis another test.
[ Foolishly, he'd assumed Viktor would understand the gravity of the suggestion, but instead of surprise, or even horror at the idea of what Emet-Selch thought Viktor was quite morally opposed to, Viktor seems considering. He will, Emet-Selch thinks, never truly understand Viktor.
So opposed to finding and taking this other version of himself, and yet perfectly happy to let countless mismatched souls graft themselves onto each other. There's a chance that nothing goes wrong, and there are simply souls whose colors are mixed, muddied from their original color. Or the far worse option is the souls begin consolidating, consuming the smaller fragments, warping into something horrific.
The kind of experiment Lahabrea might have tolerated, encouraged, even, near the end with how often he was wearing different people, but one Emet-Selch cannot stomach thinking of. ]
Well, She certainly inflicted no small amount of it upon all of you.
[ As if he didn't, upon Azem specifically. Emet-Selch does not seem to care that it is hypocritical to be so judgmental, pausing again to turn back, tugging at the shadows, tracing a series of lines into the air. Where his fingers drag, shadows follow, a wall and then a door manifesting itself from that wall. There's an audible click as the door locks and then Emet-Selch squeezes lightly at Viktor's hand to let him know they're safe to proceed. ]
We've almost arrived. Can you feel it? [ It is, in fact, a genuine question, uncertain just how much Viktor can feel with their ties and tethers. ]
[ She did. In tests upon tests and endless sacrifices, across years, across lifetimes. Viktor tries not to dwell long on the question of whether any of it was necessary. For so long he'd lived by Minfilia's mantra; to think now that everyone lost could have been saved, had their path not hinged on numbing bodies to despair - well, it is a despairing thought in and of itself.
He must content himself with the knowledge that Minfilia would have said, without reservation, that this had been the best path forward. That Ryne and Krile would agree. And because Hades is the one person who could unseat that certainty with a word, he only offers a noncommital hum in response, watches with no small amount of wonder as his invisible hands fashion a wall from nothing. He is a marvel Viktor will never tire of watching.
Perhaps, along the strange mycelia network of choice and consequence that Aepymetes called his weave, there is a bygone path where Emet-Selch held the reins of fate without Zodiark's will guiding his own - a single thread without wave after wave of death and war, where Meteion's song is silenced peacefully.
Or perhaps there is no path upon the weave where some combination of them did not suffer to see this through. Perhaps that is why Aepymetes decided to do what he did.
Just before Viktor can start to ache at the thought, Emet-Selch squeezes his hand, and automatic, he wanders on, leading the way. ]
I- Let's see.
[ His boots squeak against polished stone as he stops.
Aether hangs in the air here more densely than the cobwebs at the mouth of the long hall, thick enough to be what his mother would've called Mist. The sort of thing that drives some viera to frenzy, but merely itches across Viktor's nose. That, alone, is enough indication that they near a well of incredible aetheric power, but that's not, Viktor thinks, what Emet-Selch means.
Viktor shuts his eyes, pulls in a breath, and presses his awareness outward, delving into the cloak-heavy sea of aether around them. It's getting easier, letting magic become as thread, both in the technical sense and... it doesn't terrify him quite so much anymore. Simple enough, sliding metaphorical fingers over criss-crossing lines and letting himself see what they hold.
Here, he can still feel Hydaelyn, lingering like perfume in the air. Would that he could bottle the feeling, a comfort, even if it stings. Viktor exhales softly as he pushes past it, and is right away struck by the levin charge of something rushing to meet him. The Underworld, seeking to connect. Strange, how familiar the embrace feels. ]
'Tis... yes, i-it's- you know, it feels like the horizon does. [ Is that why he is always called to travel? Does Azem bind themself to the star as Emet-Selch does the Underworld? ] But c-cold.
[ His feet start moving again, pursuing that sensation. The further in they walk, the longer he presses outward, the more threads take firmer shape. ] Oi. [ Anchor points waiting for tethering hum and countless souls, bright little snarls of power upon the weave, dot the distance like stars. And Viktor is certain, were he to get a closer look, he would know the shape, the songs of these reflections. And he almost does lean into it, but the pull is too sharp, threatening to rip him away. He tightens his grip on Emet-Selch's hand and opens his eyes before he gleans more than he is ready for. ]
I c-can feel all of it.
FOOD FOR ME THO also sorry viktor you're dating a dick
[ He does not want to shift or coax Viktor's perception any which way, and he absolutely does not want to lift the veil to get a sense of Viktor's perception, not this close to the aetherial sea. Not after their closeness last night, not when he's not fully confident he could fasten the hem back down again.
More than that, though. Emet-Selch simply wants to know how Viktor perceives the sensation of being tethered, what his untrained senses tell him about the expanse laid out before them. The previous Emet-Selch had brought him down without any of the same safeguards, let him foolishly think he could handle the Underworld as he was, and only mocked him a little bit when he'd woken up three days later, still aching like he'd been tossed about against rocks in a running river. Foolish boy, she'd said, peering down the line of her nose at him, mouth pressed into a thin line. She'd been right, of course; she was more often than not.
The horizon, Viktor answers, and Emet-Selch tilts his head, considering. ]
You can feel most of it. [ Impossible, not to be a little condescending, though he tries to temper that condescension a little bit, accepting the tighter grip on his hand, thumb idling over Viktor's knuckles in response. ] I would not recommend attempting to immerse yourself - physically, or otherwise, within the Underworld.
[ Faintly, there is the barest whiff of old, wry embarrassment. ]
To do so would result in. Well. Nothing we have time for currently. The veil in its current form protects you from being swept underneath the waves, so to speak. Hydaelyn, I would assume, used the Mothercrystal not unlike an anchor of her own - one singular focus point, rather than the many scattered about you are used to.
[ Gingerly, he stretches out threaded shadows of power, feels the answering hum as he strums over anchors placed countless centuries ago. ]
'Tis weaker than on the Source, though the Source's aetherial sea is, I believe, still somewhat influenced by vestiges of Hydaelyn's magics.
[ One ear angles, turning back toward the sound of Emet-Selch's voice. Luckily, Viktor has tamped down on the kneejerk desire to do the exact opposite of whatever Emet-Selch tells him to do as soon as the command is given. But that does not stop his words from settling on Viktor's shoulders with the same weight as always. He frowns, chews the inside of his cheek, but there's no begrudging the ensuing lecture. Like the mask, like the grapes, like countless battles and nightmares before, Viktor has not shown himself to exercise restraint where aether and adventure are concerned.
Telltale strain in Emet-Selch's voice speaks of firsthand experience, but Viktor can't quite imagine Hades ever being the sort of foolish that sets your soul to tatters. He tries to. A younger Hades, eyes impossibly bright, hair a bit more messy, maybe, and a mind that hasn't yet learnt that is must plan for every bad might could be. Even imagining Hades rushing blindly toward excitement, mystery, and magic, Viktor simply finds himself feeling abashed, sharp shame that he presses flat as Emet-Selch goes on.
What he doesn't expect is to have that feeling answered. Like a body in bed beside him, something hears his heart and wakes, stirs with a question. Viktor whips his head around, staring into the dark. ]
I will have a c-care, Emet-Selch. [ he says, soft, and a second later, the waking thing plunged into the Sea thrums across his awareness. In the same breath that he'd promised caution, Viktor reaches for what extends a hand to him and grasps it.
Feeling rushes to meet him, faint for the distance, but unmistakable: indignation, given, slotted into place in his heart where his own has been worn away almost to nothing. His reflection wakes and wonders at his presence, beckons him closer with a gift. Nonsense glimpses of a life lived flicker through his mind, fuzzy and fragmented for how long she has been drifting in the sea, but a familiar enough story that Viktor can fill in the blanks. ]
I th-think... Hydaelyn could not manage the reflected Seas as She did the Source as Her power dwindled. 'Tis why She hangs only faintly. Why it feels more... r-raw here than on the First or the Source. Like... a garden, forgotten and overgrown. And her f-favored here knew it.
[ The connection slips, and Viktor loses track of the soul stirred in the distance, but not what she'd given him. He is quiet for a few seconds, eventually turning to look at where he can feel, if not see, Emet-Selch, gazes where he guesses his eyes would be. ]
My reflection knows we are h-here. [ A pause, and then plainly, ] Do not speak to the children like that. Undercutting, I mean. You will lose them if you do. Even if they are... wrong, foolish, frustrating. You must meet them where they are, aye? 'Tis important they feel you respect them.
[ There is always a sense of wrongness that permeates the other shards. Too many lifetimes used to the way the Source felt when it was whole means that now, feeling the fractured shards of the Underworld, the itch of something isn't right persists. Worse, when it's an issue he cannot resolve any longer. He must simply accept that this is the way the Underworld exists, now, a discordant little jangle amongst the rest of the music the Underworld provides.
Viktor, he thinks, wouldn't notice. They would only have a few moments of time comparatively to reference against and are otherwise distracted by a dozen, a hundred other sensations and bits of awareness.
There's a hum to the air; if Emet-Selch looked properly he thinks he'd see at least one soul gathered close, with a half-dozen other lingering on the periphery. While Viktor lingers, Emet-Selch slips his hand from the other man's grasp and sets to work creating. The tunnel widens, further lamps sprouting to life with faint green flickers. A pathway down into gray grass opens, spreading that same slick black stone until they have a set path, an area where the marsh-soft grass that feeds into the water won't swallow their boots to their ankles. Above, he shifts the ceiling with a thoughtless little twist of his wrist, raising it and eliminating the dirt above to give the room more breathing space.
Fitting, he supposes, for Her to simply have a tunnel down and then naught but a place for them to stand; She could give Her little marching orders and send them right back up. Irritatingly, he thinks of the main audience chamber in Garlemald, finds them too similar, and decidedly thinks of something else. ]
Of course she does. Bringing you down here - bringing both of us down here is akin to bringing proper torches amongst countless candles. [ In all the ghostly light here, even without looking at Viktor properly, he still shines like a muted sun. It's Viktor's next comment that cows him, slightly. He strains to think of what he'd said that caused it, and ah, he supposes that is a fair enough call to make. His rearranging of the audience chamber does not cease, but he does glance over his shoulder at Viktor.
He wants to protest - they're children. Of course he doesn't respect them in the same way he would their original selves. They're a fraction of a fraction, without even the sense that age can grant, but that is not the answer, neither to give nor to think. Emet-Selch digs a massive chunk from the earthen walls and smooths stone into its place, settling the dirt to the softest places where grass only intermittently the quicksand-like ground. From the corner of his eyes he can see flickers, hints of souls lingering on the periphery, wary, smart enough to stay out of his way while he works. The ground, Emet-Selch thinks, could use the steadying clutch of roots from proper greenery here. The invisibility is no longer needed, and so with a tingling rush he dismisses the charms laid upon them, and turns to look at Viktor properly. ] I shall...endeavor to keep that in mind.
[ Nothing here is wrong. Viktor sees only wilderness, overgrowth granting glimpses of something that had come before. It is an old forest, untouched for too long and unaccustomed to a guiding human hand. Like woodlands after wildfire, this place has only been reclaimed by the star, and what sprouts now is fresh and new in ways those who tended it before could not possibly expect.
But of course this wild place would heed Emet-Selch's touch, bend into the shape he desires, something more welcoming than Hydaelyn would've instructed her followers to create. Not a place rarely glimpsed, but one expected to receive visitors. Viktor watches reality reshape around him, newer easier paths, lights to guide wanderers, not welcoming, but gentler than one would expect of a road into the Underworld. Love for the artist who moves aether and shapes this place settles quilt warm over the hurt Viktor holds in his chest, but it does not stop him from offering just one more correction. ]
She cares not for the weight of our s-souls or the light they cast. 'Twas- she woke because she- she recognized what I was feeling. She... reminded me of something that was absent.
[ Dynamis, the thing between. Unsundered, the world was breathtaking. Viktor had glimpsed a fraction of a fraction of it in Elpis. A weave of aether uninterrupted, beautiful, full of bright burning souls, each one near to a god.
His own world is not that, but it is no less beautiful, less whole, for its lack of aether. In its absence, there is still a web to be found, dark and warm and scintillating. There are souls that effortlessly braid their own feeling in with yours, offering up what you are missing, taking only what they need. ]
Candles and torches, aye. 'Tis true. [ He smiles out into the distance, where he knows she lingers, then looks back to Hades as he takes shape again. ] But for us, there is something else, as well. Not light, but still warm, still c-colorful. I know what you see is so much dimmer than what was, but they are not less. Only ch-changed. Someday... someday I will show you what I f-fail to explain with words.
[ Now that he is there, not just a feeling, but a man, Viktor strides toward him and smooths down the front of his robes. ]
[ It is, he supposes, a relief that he hasn't overtly wronged this specific version of Azem. He has in a broader sense - he is absolutely responsible in part or in whole for tangential suffering they might have run into, but this version was not one he was familiar with in the same way as others. If they were - if she knew of him, Emet-Selch wonders if she would usher Viktor to a different reaction to his presence here. ]
Do you intend to elaborate on that at all?
[ Cryptic is, Emet-Selch thinks, more of an Aepymetes tack than one that Viktor takes terribly often. While it is not upsetting to hear words that angle more toward Aepymetes own than Viktor's, Emet-Selch wonders if the other man is even aware of it to begin with. If it's partially due to his closeness with this version of the soul, or something else entirely. ]
I'm well aware of your thoughts on the shards. [ His tone isn't critical, it is fond, accepting Viktor's idle petting, erasing wrinkles that do not exist. ] You needn't justify yourself, I understand perfectly well what you mean. The point I was attempting to make is simply that not unlike the voidsent on the ruined shard, these...shards of souls are drawn to those brighter, larger, whether it is their intent or not. 'Tis no small part of why one would see such drastic changes in a soul were we to implement the portals within the aetherial sea. At a certain point, a soul's....denseness becomes unwieldy. It must shed parts and pieces of itself lest it grow too gravid.
[ Viktor didn't ask for a lecture on the implications of portals, though, he came here for a purpose. Emet-Selch sighs, catching one of Viktor's hands in his where it rests over his heart. ]
Is there aught else you wished to accomplish while down here? I may return to finalize this space further, but that may take no small amount of time and you needn't wait here for it to occur.
Elaborate? [ Viktor chirrups, brows climbing. He hadn't, really. Not out of any specific desire to obfuscate. Only, people do not typically want the details where their hero is concerned. Better to be a little mysterious, to not seem to have the same doubts and weaknesses that others do - the more mythical, the less real, the better.
Except, Emet-Selch isn't most people. One ear bends as Viktor considers this, him. He has a knack for slipping past topics he mislikes like a dancer in a crowded ballroom, but he did ask this time. It takes Viktor a moment longer to work up to answering properly, and by then, Emet-Selch has moved on.
The theory feels a bit too large for him to digest in one go, but he thinks he gets the gist. He does not expect it - thinks he's wildly misinterpretted for a moment - and then angles his head, curious. ]
So- you do not... wish for another path toward rejoining? I- [ Viktor's mouth flattens as he gathers his thoughts up. ] After our conversation yesterday, about meeting my reflection. I thought that is what you w-wanted. A-and... I wondered if this- the portals, might be a more p-peaceful way to- [ A pause, his brows furrow and he stares at Emet-Selch's hand clasped over his. ] Well, evidently not, I suppose.
[ He gnaws the inside of his cheek, feeling out of his element again. Killing spiders would be vastly preferable. ]
I've nothing left to do down here, no. N-not 'til we've explored modifying the v-veil. I would not want to risk my reflection's soul 'til then. And now that we know right where to find the Sea, we needn't be so f-fussed about keeping the castle lord happy, aye?
[ Consternation fades to a faint, mischievous grin. A brief one, only, because it grows muted a moment later, bearing a beat of silence. ]
Hades, I... feel what I feel. When I reach out, I sense as many souls as there are stars in the sky. So b-bright with potential as to be blinding. I could feel Hydaelyn's lingering influence, that it had been gone long. I could feel it lay out before me near endless, old pinpoints wanting me to lay anchor, calling me to meet them. Like the horizon does, above. [ He stares up at Emet-Selch, brows furrowed. ] I do not know if it was 'all of it', but that is what it f-felt like. And when you- when you told me I was wrong. She woke to my hurt. She reminded me to feel... indignant that you would speak to me like that, just as she does over her star being f-forgotten. I do not know if it was Dynamis or just the way of reflected souls, but-
[ As he speaks, the feeling flares up again, the sort of hurt, of frustration he isn't used to feeling. Viktor's voice grows heated, words spilling out of him and then slowing again as he grasps the reins of his own anger. He stops to breathe, and calm, but firm, he goes on, ] I will thank you not to assume that my soul somehow lacks simply because my body is young.
[ The proper place to have this conversation is not in the bowels of the Underworld, where all of the fragments of the dead lie waiting, listening if not properly aware, but neither is the best path forward to dismiss Viktor, changing the subject. He's made his bed, Emet-Selch thinks wryly, and now he must lie in it.
Of course I do. That is not the answer to give. That would destroy more trust than basically anything he could say, Emet-Selch thinks. Evasion is a better tactic, for now, focusing on Viktor's own preoccupation with what Emet-Selch thought was a simple, easy no from him. ]
I fail to see how providing access between the shards' Underworlds and incentivizing rejoinings - chaotic, sloppy rejoinings, potentially fundamentally unmaking and remaking souls in the process - is a solution you would be best pleased with.
[ It's certainly not one he likes to consider. The rejoinings they managed were not...neat, necessarily, but they ensured like called to like. Countless souls mixing and matching may sound romantic in a way, but it is not just the souls that would mix, it is their memories, their thoughts, their impressions. The countless horrors each one experienced, those events written upon the aether of their souls now mixing, melding with the others. He does not know if anything would go wrong, but there seem to be too many ways for the manifestation of all that hurt scattered about to gather, to say nothing of the other countless issues. He would be condemning all of them to a final death as they were, and would not recognize what they would be reborn as.
Viktor continues, and instead of chastised as he should probably feel, anger is what burns the rest of the feelings out. Hydaelyn had hobbled them immeasurably. Had she done this intentionally? Sliced the parts and pieces of Aepymetes that made him difficult to work with, scattered those across the shards so they would be easier to use to her ends? He could not fault the process looking at it objectively, but objectivity was hard to maintain when considering Viktor.
He does not like being wrong, but the way Viktor describes what he'd felt - fleeting as the explanation is, Emet-Selch knows he was at the very least not right. He'd assumed most, if not all of that sensation would be far out of reach. His mouth presses into a tight little line of displeasure, but he lets Viktor speak, pleased, at the very least, at the heat in his words. ]
I understand. Are we quite finished here? If you would like to be irritated at me further, I would prefer it when we're both in our borrowed quarters, warm, and ideally with a glass of wine.
[ Viktor slips his hand free of Emet-Selch's grasp, gapes up at him, brows knit up in disbelief. Near as Viktor can tell, not one iota of contrition marks his features. There's just his lovely mouth flattened into a dissatisfied line, exhaustion seeming to weigh on him even more than usual. Again, Viktor finds himself feeling like a misbehaved pet, barking at nothing and wearing his master's nerves thin. Impossible not to let his mind wander to every stilted moment that should've been softer, every deft swerve away from a question asked, every escalation to stubborn argument. He thinks of Hades, clutching him vice tight, asking whether what he felt was love... and only seeming pained by the response. It is awful. He feels awful. And yet more dreadful is the idea that it will ever be like this, a mountain road of condescension and exhausted dismissal, dotted with twinkling glimpses of the man Viktor knows Hades can be.
And that, well- a good fuck isn't ever going to fix the hurt he feels each time he's looked at like he's wasting time. Nor will it change the fact that Viktor needed someone else to remind him that he shouldn't bear the thunk of every arrow like the brick wall the nightmare upon the First fashioned him into. They have a world to save, yes. And this is hardly important when set against that, of course(, of course, of course... right?). But- but. It would be a great deal easier if he- if they both remembered how to be proper people.
Viktor ruffles his fingers through his curls, fluffing them, and takes two paces back. In a voice that brokers no argument, he says, ] Aye. You head back. Get warmed up. I will make my way on foot. Ensure nothing's s-stirred in our stomping down here and see to getting the root cellar back in order.
[ He needs the time to cool off. Too close to percolating with unproductive hurt and anger, too tired of arguing to do this down here before an audience of half-sleeping mirror images of souls he knows better. But that isn't the only reason.
It isn't easy, going on, but Viktor has ever had a knack for scraping up the will to do things he didn't want to do. ]
That should give you ample time to decide how you intend to apologize to me for minimizing my f-feelings. A proper apology. And after, if you wish, we can discuss why I thought it more peaceful to allow Sea-bound souls to decide on their own terms whether and how they will bind together. On that, I s-spoke from a place of ignorance, not understanding what might occur.
[ He pauses, flat expression hiding his hurt, ears flopped back, showing it plainly. ]
I will see you in our room.
[ Viktor turns, anger clamped in the pit of his gut, and makes for the newly formed doorway. Rather than try the door itself, which he knows is locked, he flattens his palm against one of the massive stone slabs that make up the wall around it. Fingers press against Emet-Selch's spellwork. It is unyielding, set in place, but Viktor isn't in the mood to be stopped - this aether is as much his as Emet-Selch's by right.
He threads a little bit of his anger in when he pushes again, and this time, the stone gives way. Once it's gone slack, it's nothing to slip his fingers between aetheric stitches and unravel a gap large enough for him to step through. On the other side, he weaves it back together, leaving a section of Thanalan sandstone, red as the burning wall, amid the black, and Emet-Selch alone at the mouth of the Underworld. ]
[ As he says the words, he knows they're not the right ones but it is a useless, belated realization, the words escaping before he can stop himself. ]
Well, one certainly would not consider you particularly pleased with me right now.
[ Viktor is not, he realizes, angry, or even irritated. Hurt is a far more accurate term, which he only seems to realize upon actually daring to study Viktor, taking in the sight of his drooped ears, the tense set of his posture. Guilt is a mostly unfamiliar emotion, rare as water in the desert but he feels the first stirrings of it now as Viktor beats a hasty escape and leaves him here with nothing but the souls who'd borne witness.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, when he returns to his room - their room, the simulacra are nestled in bed, Emet-Selch reading to the shade of Viktor. Emet-Selch erases both of them with barely a thought, and reaches out to Hythlodaeus, only to pause. There's no answer. He's there. Emet-Selch stretches out his awareness and can feel the bastard, but every attempt to reach out to him is like attempting to reach through an invisible wall.
You can clean up your own messes once in a while, Hythlodaeus murmurs, and closes the connection entirely, leaving him standing in the ice-cold room, genuinely irritated for multiple reasons, now.
When was the last time he apologized properly? He's made vague concessions to Viktor here and there, acknowledged when he was too sharp, too clumsy with his words, but an actual apology - detailing where and when he went wrong and apologizing for that? He doesn't recall. It would be easier, he reckons, if he understood exactly what it was he was intended to apologize for. On some level it was satisfying to have Viktor push back against him with such intent - he'd rather that intent focused literally anywhere else, but he'd take it if needed. Viktor needed the wherewithal to get through these coming moons, certainly, but Emet-Selch found he did not particularly enjoy when that pushback was aimed in his direction.
Worse, and useless, is the knee-jerk thought that it doesn't matter that Viktor is upset because that's not the truth. It is a lie he feeds himself to assuage himself of any guilt. Emet-Selch was right; he had the knowledge and the experience, he was correct because only he understood the Underworld in this way; everyone else was dead and gone, their aether long since repurposed, reformed, lacking knowledge. But wasn't that the issue? Minimizing what Viktor could feel, which was far more than anyone alive could manage. Their bindings had intertwined them so inextricably - Emet-Selch couldn't know just what Viktor could feel. He could be certain that Viktor would not have the lifetimes of knowledge to know how to tend to the Sea, and that his awareness was undeniably less intense than the man who was ostensibly responsible, but...
How irritating. He cleans what little needs to be cleaned, starts a fire in the fireplace by hand just to have something to do, and spends the rest of his time working on busywork, waiting for the sound of footsteps in the hall, the creak of the door to announce Viktor's arrival. Hythlodaeus answers exactly none of his summons, nor his intermittent inquires, nothing but cool, clear nothingness save for amusement at his consternation. ]
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[ A sniff. He's got no interest in being waylaid when they have useful tasks to attend to, but he doesn't begrudge Viktor for the desire, even if that desire is not necessarily shared. ]
Do wh- [ The question is so out of the blue that Emet-Selch is jarred from his thoughts as effectively as if Viktor'd smacked him on the back of the head. Ah. Hythlodaeus. Of course. Emet-Selch can't blame him for asking, and glances over the two figures, lingering. ]
No. I was intentional about ensuring that could not happen again.
[ Hythlodaeus would find it terribly amusing for him to have done such a thing again, but Emet-Selch was careful. He had already erred once, and the idea of creating them after already doing that to Hythlodaeus - no. He skims through the magical makeup of both of them just to be certain, but there is nothing out of the ordinary. There was, he thinks wryly, nothing out of the ordinary with the shade of Hythlodaeus, either, but he also could not bear to look at him for periods longer than a few moments. ]
They are - for lack of a better word - programmed to act as we do. A set routine, and then retiring to bed. Were they attacked, they would manage a passable effort before ultimately expiring. They would be able to tell us who made the attempt, though.
[ So long as Emet-Selch recognizes the face that they show, anyway. He glances over to Viktor once satisfied his manifestations aren't about to accidentally gain sentience when he looks away, and then looks at Viktor, the curve of his waist, the spread of his shoulders in the robes, and swallows. The magic that settles over them prickles, like a faint cloth tossed over their heads. Emet-Selch can see through the veil to the changes Viktor's made, but the moment the enchantment falls Emet-Selch is relatively certain he goes invisible as well as Viktor, to Viktor's own eyes. ]
I've had practice in snooping about while invisible. If you are satisfied, we may leave.
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Bed together, eh? [ A faint grin. ] 'Tis quite the useful spell. [ Mumbled, filling a silence while he thinks. Not the time now, but later, he will ask about the dream thing Emet-Selch bottled up. Can it think? Could it be planted in Amaurot, cultivated into something more, something that would be whole enough for Hythlodaeus, so that he is not alone? Would it be welcome? Could the two of them figure a way to do more than that, still? Or does such thinking cross over into the sort of Wrong that stokes angry fire?
A difficult conversation. For later. For now, Viktor settles on: ] Do not let me learn it or you will never know when I am actually at-t-tending those logistics meetings in the Crystarium again.
[ And then, they're both gone. It is disorienting, watching the real Emet-Selch fade to nothing and being left with a base simulacrum. Viktor stares a moment longer, like he might glimpse some truth about the real man if he can spot some oddity in his copy, but the false Hades simply sees to his tea, entirely normal.
Invisibility feels near exactly as Viktor had expected, light as damp air on a late spring night, faintly fizzling against his skin, making him perpetually aware of its presence. ]
It's like starlight. [ Viktor says of the magic, a touch of wonder in his voice. On instinct, he reaches out for where he thinks Emet-Selch's hand still lingers - where he can feel his presence. ] I assume your s-sight means I am still visible to you. C'mon then.
[ Whether or not he manages the brush of fingertips he seeks, he turns, opens the door, and slips out into the chilly fortress. Viktor trusts that Emet-Selch will follow as he slinks light-footed down the hall, hugging walls as he turns corners, mindful of the few people still out wandering, but not so overly cautious as to slow them down. He is, plainly, practiced at sneaking - good to know he hasn't gotten rusty in the years since necessarily transforming from shadow to beacon.
Few true obstacles stand in their way. The closest thing they arrive at to trouble is Viktor needing to stop himself from giggling over a guard so disengaged from his station that he sits hunched over a romance novel, reading by candle light. With minimal fuss Viktor navigates to the inner courtyard, bringing Emet-Selch to the root cellar with the confidence of someone who has lived and worked here for years.
Annoyingly low ceiling aside, it's not unpleasant beneath the castle. Cold, but not too cold, and well kept, smelling only of earth. Viktor turns this way and that, orienting himself, and then makes his way to the sparsely stocked shelf that he is near positive hides a passageway. ]
'Tis beyond here, I think. The way down.
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Given the chance, the one exception he can think of is the shade of Hythlodaeus. He had not intended cruelty in its creation, had not intended anything other than set dressing, and yet, he had been cruel, undeniably. He continues to be cruel by not grasping both hands into the illusion of Amaurot, rending it in twain.
If he were willing to be truthful, he'd know he couldn't. Being somewhat responsible for her fall weighed heavily enough; he doesn't have the wherewithal in him to destroy Amaurot again and absolutely could not muster up the ability to knowingly destroy Hythlodaeus, even if the real one sits in the aetherial sea. Neither would he ask Viktor to get his hands dirty with work Emet-Selch is too weak to manage. Too weak to kill Hythlodaeus, just cruel enough to make him linger in a half-existence because of his cowardice. ]
Useful enough, aye.
[ A distracted answer, idly thinking about all the times he'd used that spell as Solus especially, eager to escape prying eyes and have time alone to himself. Viktor, as ever, drags him from the past into the present, intentionally or not. A second, then he processes Viktor's other statement and manages a wan smile that Viktor cannot see, but may hear. ]
Why do you think I haven't taught you either? You're already a menace.
[ It does, he supposes, feel like starlight. He'd activated the spell thoughtlessly, not bothering to think or feel anything about it but forgotten that with all of this new to Viktor, to have the spell cast would not be a normal, rote part of one's day. He lingers. Lets Viktor grasp at him and makes sure he misses the first attempt, then gently corrects him, sliding his fingers along Viktor's forearm, down until their fingers twine loosely. ]
Of course. Wouldn't want to lose track of you.
[ He does, of course, toss a silence charm about the two of them just to be safe. It won't do anything if one of them does stub their toe, but it muffles the whisper of robes or the grind of boots on stone, and allows them to slip silently through the fortress. Better still, following Viktor lets Emet-Selch indulge in simply looking at him, admiring the silhouette of him from behind greedily, knowing he won't be caught doing anything as embarrassing as gazing.
Emet-Selch ducks to enter after Viktor, nose wrinkling. He hates cellars. Dark, dank little places they've no business being in when there's a perfectly warm, servicable bed awaiting them. With a particularly put-out little sigh he studies the shelf enough to memorize its rough make and then Emet-Selch obliterates the shelf with a snap and reassembles it out of the way, revealing Viktor was correct. A second passageway sits, cobwebbed, darker, danker, colder. Emet-Selch thinks again, longingly, of bed, and nudges Viktor's back. ]
Onward, then, brave adventurer.
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Though chilled and tired after a long day, Viktor thinks not of heavy blankets or soft beds. Warming enough, the promise of adventure — real adventure, and not merely another necessary chore in dire need of doing to stave off the end of the world — had on a hunch, and taken not alone, but with one much beloved. Hades does not seem to share in his excitement. Later, once they've solved the mystery of this passage, Viktor will find a way to make it up to him.
With the shelf out of the way, Viktor paces deeper into the dark, catching cobwebs between his ears and swiping them away with a grumble. Before long the narrow passage widens, what little sound there is echoing deep. ]
Well. I'll need another b-bath after this. You? [ He's only half joking, but clamoring back into that oversized tub for a soak together does sound like a fine prize at the end of this excursion.
He keeps close to the wall as he moves, eventually pressing a palm to the packed earth walls and dragging fingers over the surface. Tiles. He feels tiles. ]
This calls to mind Gelmorran ruins. [ Viktor stops, calls light to his fingertips to get a closer look at what he's discovered. Glossy, black, etched with swirls — and then, out of the corner of his eye, further in the dark, something glints as it moves, many legs skittering further back into the dark.
Viktor peers back, where he knows Hades is, but cannot see. ] Extremely like Gelmorran ruins.
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[ Now that there's no one to hear them, his complaints continue, echoing faintly in the stone halls as Emet-Selch picks his way down the stairs carefully, grimacing when he steps in something wet. What would have business being wet down here? Eugh. ]
At least one. You're mistaken if you think either of us are getting within a yalm of bed while we're- [ Oh, well. Gelmorran ruins are at least somewhat interesting. He strains to recall what, or who used to inhabit this place before the obnoxious princeling and then more pressingly, tries to recall if there are any elementals they might need to contend with. Probably not? They tended to (wisely) give him and others a wide berth, after a few encounters which ended terrifically poorly for them. Elidibus had been borderline distraught afterward; Lahabrea had absconded with one of them in the aftermath and Emet-Selch was never certain if Elidibus was aware or not. ]
You will not be overly cross with me if I simply eradicate whatever might be lurking down here, will you?
[ He has no desire to actually fight and he's relatively certain there's going to be some manner of unpleasant beastie down here. So long as it's not a person, or something or someone sentient, well, he thinks Viktor ought not have too much to protest about. Squinting into the dim lighting Viktor provides, he tries to spot any sort of torches and, upon finding none right away, impatiently opts to simply make them, a half-dozen ghostly, glowing green lights illuminating a path forward from where Viktor stands. Something skitters, loud enough he can hear it, and Emet-Selch sighs again, weary. He has cobwebs in his hair, he can feel it.]
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[ His ears twitch, one tilting to track the sound of that something in the dark, seeking more. A second later, green light flares to life down the corridor and he turns to take in the newly illuminated path with a laugh. ]
Will I be cross?
[ Though he has no cane, no axe at his back, Viktor is hardly unarmed. He could call for Ingrimm, he knows, can picture the gnarled branch leaned in a corner of their quarters. But that hardly feels necessary down here. Instead he crouches to retrieve the dagger tucked into his boot, scanning the flickering green light for signs of unnatural movement.
He spots something, a glint of a carapace, a glimpse of something large clung to the ceiling.
What waits down here? Only vilekin? Undead? Another wretchedly arrogant necromancer, perhaps? He is, he must admit, excited to find out. Excited to delve into the dark in a way he has not been in a long, long time. ]
Emet-Selch... [ An audible grin, an incredulous arch of one brow ] You must reach them first to eradicate them. We'll talk of whether I'll be cross a-after.
[ He punctuates his words with a flick of the wrist. The dagger flashes, flies, and a second later, embeds itself with a crunch in the nasty creature stuck to the ceiling down the hall. It screeches and falls, and Viktor bounds after it, a hound scenting its hunt. ]
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[ Whatever it is that lurks down here sounds as if it has more legs than it ought to. Hythlodaeus and his pity approvals; now, more than ever Emet-Selch is certain other are some creatures that should not have seen the light of day whatsoever. Two legs - four, maximum, are perfectly serviceable. ]
Yes, I would hate to take you out for enrichment and then deprive you of it.
[ It is, he admits, good to see Viktor so easily excited. To see him without the shroud of expectation and duty, as he actually is, how he would be, potentially, without Hydaelyn's corrupting touch. Freed from the need to be performative, to re-earn a mantle he's earned in blood, sweat, and death countless times over. ]
I would rather know now so if I snap them away, you are not - [ Oh, there he goes. Emet-Selch rolls his eyes to the ceiling, a wretched mix of weary and fond, and strides after him with a far more relaxed pace. ]
You had best be throwing daggers only; otherwise, I will make you rinse before entering the bath. The last thing I want is entrails floating amongst the salts.
[ A pause, to pull a face, lip curled in disgust at the too-many-legged creature skittering with Viktor trotting after it. He ought to let Viktor have his fun, but the idea of him covered in gore is not appealing and so the moment he's close enough, he snaps the creature out of existence here, and drops it and Viktor's embedded dagger somewhere else entirely. He has all of a moment to be smug before he sees a flicker of movement and several others bleed out from the shadows, all skittering legs and shiny carapaces. Emet-Selch sighs heavily, and summons a small bundle of daggers for Viktor, smacking them against his chest. In the tone of someone who knows he's lost an argument, and with a weary, lazy little wave of his hand, ]
Well. Have at it then.
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[ This hypothesis, of course, hinges on the incredibly subjective meaning of "good adventure" and the preferences of the man defining it. A man who still looks back on his first trek into the Aurum Vale with fondness - who wants for nothing more than to delve into places rarely seen to have his mettle tested, to forge stronger bonds with those dragged into danger beside him.
Viktor skids to a stop when the vilekin disappears, disappointment dragging his ears down. He scoffs and turns. ] You speak of depriving me of enrichment and in the very next breath! Honestly. [ Not cross exactly, but certainly the sort of heatlessly fussy he hasn't had the time or luxury of being since Fandaniel erected the first of his hellish towers on the Source. He juts a finger toward the space where the arachnid used to be. ] That one still counts as my k-kill.
[ Emet-Selch presses knives into his hands, and Viktor laughs. ] Come now, d'you really think I'd get viscera on these robes? [ He would. Besides the point. He juggles the bundle of knives to his right arm, unbothered by the scurry of too many legs coming closer. ] You'll just be s-snapping them away, then? [ Viktor takes a single knife in hand. Channels aether into the blade until it's near impossible to look at straight on, brightening the passageway enough to illuminate the mob of creatures rushing forward. ] Tsk. tsk. Hardly s-sporting.
[ He flings the blade hard as he can, grinning when it slices into the encroaching mob of creatures. Like pulling a string, Viktor tugs his fingers back and turns, shielding his eyes from the gross incandescence that explodes behind him. What isn't shattered by the tear of Light through the air is stunned to stillness by the magical shockwave.
Viktor gives his head a shake. ]
This is your fault, you know. You could've cultivated a sh-shard where all they did was opera or epic p-poetry. Fewer spider-ridden p-passages, then. And we could be doing some thing you l-like.
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There are plenty more wretched little beasties for you to play target practice with, quit whining.
[ Viktor's question, with its obvious answer of yes, you would goes unanswered save for a squinted, incredulous little look Viktor cannot even see, and a sigh, drowned out by the thwoom of magic. ]
Who's to say I didn't? Maybe it was terribly boring and so we never attempted it again. [ Emet-Selch peers over Viktor's shoulder at the damage wrought and hms, this time appreciative. Not even a bit of viscera on Viktor's robes, lovely. He amends that thought near as quick as he has it, not trusting Viktor not to go rooting about with bare hands that he would very much like to touch him later tonight while they're in bed. ]
Please tell me you don't intend to loot any corpses left over.
lmao for some reason it replied as a whole new top level??
I'll have you know, had I the time and inclination, I could turn those c-carapaces into one h-hell of an impressive piece of embroidery.
[ The same sort of iridescent black as Azem's mask. Carved and polished, stitched into a flowing robe - it'd be the sort of garment he'd wear to the sort of thing Emet-Selch would rather be doing, going to the theater or attending a gallery showing. Maybe he'll stomp back down here again sometime and harvest one to serve as a reference for when they return to the First. Maybe, someday, they will go and see shows and look at art from ages past, and Hades will tell him all the sordid little details behind every story, statue, and painting.
As it stands, though, they do have better, more important things to do. And it is late, and he, cold. So he takes the remaining daggers in both hands and unmakes them between his palms. The raw aether he winds up and tosses. It unfurls before him, now a length of simple, rough fabric that settles over the insectoid gore, offering an ichor-free walkway for the both of them. ]
M-mind where you s-step. I imagine it's fairly slick.
[ Viktor navigates with ease, of course, trudging deeper into the dark, undaunted by the seemingly endless hall. No entrance to the Sea is easy to reach in Viktor's experience, and the polished black tiles that dot the walls, floor, and ceiling tell him there's a very good chance he will find one here, should he walk long enough.
After a lengthy silence, he glances back over his shoulder. The absence behind him does not startle him, but only because he can feel Hades there. ]
What will you do... with all these entrances to the Sea, after? S-some do already have adequate guards, I suppose. D-do you intend to find all of them, shore up protections?
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For an absurd, insane moment, he thinks of the soldiers who'd tried to curry favor with officers, draping tarps or sheets upon mud so they could walk easily, and amends that thought; more like a suitor, sweeping off their jacket. As much as he wishes he had maintained enough hardness to stand firm in the face of this, Viktor has chiseled steadily away at the most calcified parts of him and left what's beneath tender and exposed. He steps carefully onto the pathway, robes lifted ilms above his ankles, and resolutely does not feel a little embarrassed by how pleased he is by the gesture. ]
Close them off. If I knew I would have the time... well. 'Tis almost certain I will not, and the best option is to close them all off, save for one or two which would be guarded far better than the Sharlayans' middling attempts.
[ He doesn't recall building this one, even if it is admittedly done adjacent to his taste. Doesn't recall if he even was the one to do it, or if one of the others did, or if they'd simply outsourced it and handled the last bit. Stepping through a portal from somewhere into the foyer was always his preferred method of getting around - no spiderwebs, no creepy crawlies, no dust making your nose itch fiercely. ]
'Twould be a trifle to do so, and in some cases it may have already occurred. I'd quite forgotten any of this was here. I suppose we might have built it, ages ago, but...
[ His footsteps still, looking at the walls properly and oh, of course. He can see Hydaelyn's magic streaking through the walls here, faded, but still like blue veins leading their way to the dead heart. Had she made this place, knowing he would someday walk these halls, had she known? Or was it some sort of homage to - stars. He doesn't want to think about this.
He blinks, mouth set in an unhappy little line, striding forward a touch quicker. They hit a point going low enough that the tethers of magic that reach for him in welcome are barely tinged with Her at all and he only feels a little petty at stretching his power, his awareness out like shaking out dusty old sheets, tucking the corners in. ]
Have I the time and inclination, it may be worth attempting to create a shortened path between each. A nightmare, to be certain, if anyone who ought not to have access does gain access, but far easier to transition souls from one shard to the next if they've returned to the sea, if we've a worst case scenario.
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[ An effort to create an open line of communication. Viktor is certain Hydaelyn would not have willingly left the other shards to die in the dark. Just as she had managed in Sharlayan, she would have called to them. Some here must have known the truth, would have been given the directive to prepare. Viktor cannot allow himself to believe otherwise, though it seems if those efforts had once borne fruit, they rotted upon the vine in the wake of this nation's slow decay.
It's something of a surprise that Viktor notices when Emet-Selch stops and hangs behind him. He cannot see it, cannot hear it, but he feels the distance in the aether between them, like the tide rolling out, waves unable to climb as far up shore. Viktor stops, studies the feeling, and does not continue again until he feels Emet-Selch drawing near once more, cool, steady comfort.
Viktor ponders Emet-Selch's words as they walk. Longs, briefly, for the far more brilliant minds of his lost friends. They would know the right tack to take, and then Viktor could get the doing of it done. Maybe his reflection here is more clever than he is. How convenient it would be, to call any soul, any reflection, for consultation.
That's what he's thinking as the passage opens up, wider and wider, until it seems the walls and ceiling disappear entirely into the dark. ]
Could you... build the passages within the Sea itself? Rather than above?
[ A pause. It truly is a question of time, of focus. Are there efforts best spent in preparation, assuming the worst, when they have already lost so much and threaten to lose a little more each time they flee? Or is the right path the one that leads them directly to Meteion? Viktor exhales, a soft, pained sound. ]
And after, once we have conquered this, there would be time to look at the nightmare of above ground logistics.
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[ There's far less bitterness in his tone than he expects there to be, though. Of course Hydaelyn would speak to her chosen, of course they would build these ridiculous little paths down to her, unknowing of the ones that existed before, and unable to simply transport themselves within. Why she had not simply had her chosen attuned to the Mothercrystal to expedite the process, he doesn't know. Were he in her position, it is what he would have done, saving countless years of effort digging down into nothingness, making cobweb-encrusted little tunnels like animals.
He cannot make sense of her whims, though, and to attempt to feels like a losing battle. Viktor stills, like he can feel Emet-Selch having paused, and Emet-Selch measures the response, coming closer, watching Viktor start back up again. He can feel it, then, some intangible thing that gives away Emet-Selch's presence. This, too, is pleasing in a way he doesn't expect, and he reaches back out to grasp Viktor's hand loosely. ]
That may not be a solution you will like. What you suggest is, in effect, a rejoining.
[ One they'd considered, long ago in the past. If they could not rejoin the shards, Lahabrea had suggested Emet-Selch rejoin the seas instead, forcibly causing a rejoining through them. Emet-Selch had objected, with no hesitation. While it would serve their ends, to fundamentally alter the aetherial sea put far too much at risk; there was no telling what could go wrong if they did such a thing. To say nothing of Hydaelyn Herself; she would fight them, undoubtedly.
And where would the partially rejoined souls go? What would happen to them if they were to mix and meld with pieces, fragments not their own? Lahabrea had not liked the answer, had dedicated no small amount of time to making his own underlings do research as if Emet-Selch would not stop him the moment he got too ambitious for his own good, and Eldibus had left the two of them to sort themselves out, recusing himself from petty arguments. ]
The risk with joining the seas as opposed to the area above is one cannot control how the souls would...meld. Fragments calling to each other without rhyme or reason, a cup filled to bursting suddenly with holes scattered about, dribbling the Sea, risking spillage - no. No veil would protect them from aught that could occur; we may cause more damage than we could ever expect.
[ The walls open up, still murky and dark and Emet-Selch sighs, snapping more ghostly lights to illuminate the path forward. This close to the sea, the air hums with magic, almost thick with it, so much so that if he concentrates, it feels like attempting to walk through syrup. ]
For all that She styled Herself and Her minions as of light she certainly seemed to have an aversion to putting any in her little tunnels down.
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He gives the fingers twined with his a squeeze. In word and in touch, Emet-Selch is a grounding presence, the earth to Viktor's sky. An anchor, keeping his thoughts focused, his body warm. Viktor is endlessly thankful for him.
Maybe his own ideas are too romantic. He can allow that much. Too much like poetry for reality - too fundamental a change to the make of their star. ]
I see. 'Tis something that would doubtless require extensive research, then. More than we've the time for.
[ Except, he supposes that if anyone should be a research subject for these overly romantic theories of his, it is him. The way he bumps up against the reflections of his own soul, it's almost meant to be. He and Ardbert had joined only when the both of them had willed it. Perhaps it will be the same with the shard that lingers upon this layer. Or maybe not. They will know soon, either way.
Green light flickers to life around them, and Viktor again is reminded of the Antitower, of the Palace of the Dead. Inbetween places, spots after living and before death. Emet-Selch speaks of Viktor's Mother, and one of his ears turns. He is quiet for a few paces, even his footsteps muffled by magic still.
Eventually, though, he speaks... ]
That was the point. [ Viktor runs his thumb over Emet-Selch's knuckles. ] Despite... everything, Venat knew her world to be a paradise. [ She had only glimpsed what Hermes, Hythlodaeus, and Aepymetes had lived. The imperfections, hidden by a society that demanded conformity, that drew stark lines around the shape a soul was allowed to take to still be considered a soul. ] And she thought... suffering was the key to defeating despair. [ He glances back at nothing. There is no smile on his face, no frown. He simply states what he knows, soul deep, to be true. ] Hydaelyn needed beacons. Light that gutters the moment darkness falls will be snuffed by Meteion's song. [ There is no judgment in his voice. No exhaustion. Just acceptance. ] 'Tis another test.
forgot the rest of the caps UGHHH
So opposed to finding and taking this other version of himself, and yet perfectly happy to let countless mismatched souls graft themselves onto each other. There's a chance that nothing goes wrong, and there are simply souls whose colors are mixed, muddied from their original color. Or the far worse option is the souls begin consolidating, consuming the smaller fragments, warping into something horrific.
The kind of experiment Lahabrea might have tolerated, encouraged, even, near the end with how often he was wearing different people, but one Emet-Selch cannot stomach thinking of. ]
Well, She certainly inflicted no small amount of it upon all of you.
[ As if he didn't, upon Azem specifically. Emet-Selch does not seem to care that it is hypocritical to be so judgmental, pausing again to turn back, tugging at the shadows, tracing a series of lines into the air. Where his fingers drag, shadows follow, a wall and then a door manifesting itself from that wall. There's an audible click as the door locks and then Emet-Selch squeezes lightly at Viktor's hand to let him know they're safe to proceed. ]
We've almost arrived. Can you feel it? [ It is, in fact, a genuine question, uncertain just how much Viktor can feel with their ties and tethers. ]
this is so long sobdhshhsh
He must content himself with the knowledge that Minfilia would have said, without reservation, that this had been the best path forward. That Ryne and Krile would agree. And because Hades is the one person who could unseat that certainty with a word, he only offers a noncommital hum in response, watches with no small amount of wonder as his invisible hands fashion a wall from nothing. He is a marvel Viktor will never tire of watching.
Perhaps, along the strange mycelia network of choice and consequence that Aepymetes called his weave, there is a bygone path where Emet-Selch held the reins of fate without Zodiark's will guiding his own - a single thread without wave after wave of death and war, where Meteion's song is silenced peacefully.
Or perhaps there is no path upon the weave where some combination of them did not suffer to see this through. Perhaps that is why Aepymetes decided to do what he did.
Just before Viktor can start to ache at the thought, Emet-Selch squeezes his hand, and automatic, he wanders on, leading the way. ]
I- Let's see.
[ His boots squeak against polished stone as he stops.
Aether hangs in the air here more densely than the cobwebs at the mouth of the long hall, thick enough to be what his mother would've called Mist. The sort of thing that drives some viera to frenzy, but merely itches across Viktor's nose. That, alone, is enough indication that they near a well of incredible aetheric power, but that's not, Viktor thinks, what Emet-Selch means.
Viktor shuts his eyes, pulls in a breath, and presses his awareness outward, delving into the cloak-heavy sea of aether around them. It's getting easier, letting magic become as thread, both in the technical sense and... it doesn't terrify him quite so much anymore. Simple enough, sliding metaphorical fingers over criss-crossing lines and letting himself see what they hold.
Here, he can still feel Hydaelyn, lingering like perfume in the air. Would that he could bottle the feeling, a comfort, even if it stings. Viktor exhales softly as he pushes past it, and is right away struck by the levin charge of something rushing to meet him. The Underworld, seeking to connect. Strange, how familiar the embrace feels. ]
'Tis... yes, i-it's- you know, it feels like the horizon does. [ Is that why he is always called to travel? Does Azem bind themself to the star as Emet-Selch does the Underworld? ] But c-cold.
[ His feet start moving again, pursuing that sensation. The further in they walk, the longer he presses outward, the more threads take firmer shape. ] Oi. [ Anchor points waiting for tethering hum and countless souls, bright little snarls of power upon the weave, dot the distance like stars. And Viktor is certain, were he to get a closer look, he would know the shape, the songs of these reflections. And he almost does lean into it, but the pull is too sharp, threatening to rip him away. He tightens his grip on Emet-Selch's hand and opens his eyes before he gleans more than he is ready for. ]
I c-can feel all of it.
FOOD FOR ME THO also sorry viktor you're dating a dick
More than that, though. Emet-Selch simply wants to know how Viktor perceives the sensation of being tethered, what his untrained senses tell him about the expanse laid out before them. The previous Emet-Selch had brought him down without any of the same safeguards, let him foolishly think he could handle the Underworld as he was, and only mocked him a little bit when he'd woken up three days later, still aching like he'd been tossed about against rocks in a running river. Foolish boy, she'd said, peering down the line of her nose at him, mouth pressed into a thin line. She'd been right, of course; she was more often than not.
The horizon, Viktor answers, and Emet-Selch tilts his head, considering. ]
You can feel most of it. [ Impossible, not to be a little condescending, though he tries to temper that condescension a little bit, accepting the tighter grip on his hand, thumb idling over Viktor's knuckles in response. ] I would not recommend attempting to immerse yourself - physically, or otherwise, within the Underworld.
[ Faintly, there is the barest whiff of old, wry embarrassment. ]
To do so would result in. Well. Nothing we have time for currently. The veil in its current form protects you from being swept underneath the waves, so to speak. Hydaelyn, I would assume, used the Mothercrystal not unlike an anchor of her own - one singular focus point, rather than the many scattered about you are used to.
[ Gingerly, he stretches out threaded shadows of power, feels the answering hum as he strums over anchors placed countless centuries ago. ]
'Tis weaker than on the Source, though the Source's aetherial sea is, I believe, still somewhat influenced by vestiges of Hydaelyn's magics.
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Telltale strain in Emet-Selch's voice speaks of firsthand experience, but Viktor can't quite imagine Hades ever being the sort of foolish that sets your soul to tatters. He tries to. A younger Hades, eyes impossibly bright, hair a bit more messy, maybe, and a mind that hasn't yet learnt that is must plan for every bad might could be. Even imagining Hades rushing blindly toward excitement, mystery, and magic, Viktor simply finds himself feeling abashed, sharp shame that he presses flat as Emet-Selch goes on.
What he doesn't expect is to have that feeling answered. Like a body in bed beside him, something hears his heart and wakes, stirs with a question. Viktor whips his head around, staring into the dark. ]
I will have a c-care, Emet-Selch. [ he says, soft, and a second later, the waking thing plunged into the Sea thrums across his awareness. In the same breath that he'd promised caution, Viktor reaches for what extends a hand to him and grasps it.
Feeling rushes to meet him, faint for the distance, but unmistakable: indignation, given, slotted into place in his heart where his own has been worn away almost to nothing. His reflection wakes and wonders at his presence, beckons him closer with a gift. Nonsense glimpses of a life lived flicker through his mind, fuzzy and fragmented for how long she has been drifting in the sea, but a familiar enough story that Viktor can fill in the blanks. ]
I th-think... Hydaelyn could not manage the reflected Seas as She did the Source as Her power dwindled. 'Tis why She hangs only faintly. Why it feels more... r-raw here than on the First or the Source. Like... a garden, forgotten and overgrown. And her f-favored here knew it.
[ The connection slips, and Viktor loses track of the soul stirred in the distance, but not what she'd given him. He is quiet for a few seconds, eventually turning to look at where he can feel, if not see, Emet-Selch, gazes where he guesses his eyes would be. ]
My reflection knows we are h-here. [ A pause, and then plainly, ] Do not speak to the children like that. Undercutting, I mean. You will lose them if you do. Even if they are... wrong, foolish, frustrating. You must meet them where they are, aye? 'Tis important they feel you respect them.
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Viktor, he thinks, wouldn't notice. They would only have a few moments of time comparatively to reference against and are otherwise distracted by a dozen, a hundred other sensations and bits of awareness.
There's a hum to the air; if Emet-Selch looked properly he thinks he'd see at least one soul gathered close, with a half-dozen other lingering on the periphery. While Viktor lingers, Emet-Selch slips his hand from the other man's grasp and sets to work creating. The tunnel widens, further lamps sprouting to life with faint green flickers. A pathway down into gray grass opens, spreading that same slick black stone until they have a set path, an area where the marsh-soft grass that feeds into the water won't swallow their boots to their ankles. Above, he shifts the ceiling with a thoughtless little twist of his wrist, raising it and eliminating the dirt above to give the room more breathing space.
Fitting, he supposes, for Her to simply have a tunnel down and then naught but a place for them to stand; She could give Her little marching orders and send them right back up. Irritatingly, he thinks of the main audience chamber in Garlemald, finds them too similar, and decidedly thinks of something else. ]
Of course she does. Bringing you down here - bringing both of us down here is akin to bringing proper torches amongst countless candles. [ In all the ghostly light here, even without looking at Viktor properly, he still shines like a muted sun. It's Viktor's next comment that cows him, slightly. He strains to think of what he'd said that caused it, and ah, he supposes that is a fair enough call to make. His rearranging of the audience chamber does not cease, but he does glance over his shoulder at Viktor.
He wants to protest - they're children. Of course he doesn't respect them in the same way he would their original selves. They're a fraction of a fraction, without even the sense that age can grant, but that is not the answer, neither to give nor to think. Emet-Selch digs a massive chunk from the earthen walls and smooths stone into its place, settling the dirt to the softest places where grass only intermittently the quicksand-like ground. From the corner of his eyes he can see flickers, hints of souls lingering on the periphery, wary, smart enough to stay out of his way while he works. The ground, Emet-Selch thinks, could use the steadying clutch of roots from proper greenery here. The invisibility is no longer needed, and so with a tingling rush he dismisses the charms laid upon them, and turns to look at Viktor properly. ] I shall...endeavor to keep that in mind.
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But of course this wild place would heed Emet-Selch's touch, bend into the shape he desires, something more welcoming than Hydaelyn would've instructed her followers to create. Not a place rarely glimpsed, but one expected to receive visitors. Viktor watches reality reshape around him, newer easier paths, lights to guide wanderers, not welcoming, but gentler than one would expect of a road into the Underworld. Love for the artist who moves aether and shapes this place settles quilt warm over the hurt Viktor holds in his chest, but it does not stop him from offering just one more correction. ]
She cares not for the weight of our s-souls or the light they cast. 'Twas- she woke because she- she recognized what I was feeling. She... reminded me of something that was absent.
[ Dynamis, the thing between. Unsundered, the world was breathtaking. Viktor had glimpsed a fraction of a fraction of it in Elpis. A weave of aether uninterrupted, beautiful, full of bright burning souls, each one near to a god.
His own world is not that, but it is no less beautiful, less whole, for its lack of aether. In its absence, there is still a web to be found, dark and warm and scintillating. There are souls that effortlessly braid their own feeling in with yours, offering up what you are missing, taking only what they need. ]
Candles and torches, aye. 'Tis true. [ He smiles out into the distance, where he knows she lingers, then looks back to Hades as he takes shape again. ] But for us, there is something else, as well. Not light, but still warm, still c-colorful. I know what you see is so much dimmer than what was, but they are not less. Only ch-changed. Someday... someday I will show you what I f-fail to explain with words.
[ Now that he is there, not just a feeling, but a man, Viktor strides toward him and smooths down the front of his robes. ]
Thank you for hearing me, all the same.
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Do you intend to elaborate on that at all?
[ Cryptic is, Emet-Selch thinks, more of an Aepymetes tack than one that Viktor takes terribly often. While it is not upsetting to hear words that angle more toward Aepymetes own than Viktor's, Emet-Selch wonders if the other man is even aware of it to begin with. If it's partially due to his closeness with this version of the soul, or something else entirely. ]
I'm well aware of your thoughts on the shards. [ His tone isn't critical, it is fond, accepting Viktor's idle petting, erasing wrinkles that do not exist. ] You needn't justify yourself, I understand perfectly well what you mean. The point I was attempting to make is simply that not unlike the voidsent on the ruined shard, these...shards of souls are drawn to those brighter, larger, whether it is their intent or not. 'Tis no small part of why one would see such drastic changes in a soul were we to implement the portals within the aetherial sea. At a certain point, a soul's....denseness becomes unwieldy. It must shed parts and pieces of itself lest it grow too gravid.
[ Viktor didn't ask for a lecture on the implications of portals, though, he came here for a purpose. Emet-Selch sighs, catching one of Viktor's hands in his where it rests over his heart. ]
Is there aught else you wished to accomplish while down here? I may return to finalize this space further, but that may take no small amount of time and you needn't wait here for it to occur.
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Except, Emet-Selch isn't most people. One ear bends as Viktor considers this, him. He has a knack for slipping past topics he mislikes like a dancer in a crowded ballroom, but he did ask this time. It takes Viktor a moment longer to work up to answering properly, and by then, Emet-Selch has moved on.
The theory feels a bit too large for him to digest in one go, but he thinks he gets the gist. He does not expect it - thinks he's wildly misinterpretted for a moment - and then angles his head, curious. ]
So- you do not... wish for another path toward rejoining? I- [ Viktor's mouth flattens as he gathers his thoughts up. ] After our conversation yesterday, about meeting my reflection. I thought that is what you w-wanted. A-and... I wondered if this- the portals, might be a more p-peaceful way to- [ A pause, his brows furrow and he stares at Emet-Selch's hand clasped over his. ] Well, evidently not, I suppose.
[ He gnaws the inside of his cheek, feeling out of his element again. Killing spiders would be vastly preferable. ]
I've nothing left to do down here, no. N-not 'til we've explored modifying the v-veil. I would not want to risk my reflection's soul 'til then. And now that we know right where to find the Sea, we needn't be so f-fussed about keeping the castle lord happy, aye?
[ Consternation fades to a faint, mischievous grin. A brief one, only, because it grows muted a moment later, bearing a beat of silence. ]
Hades, I... feel what I feel. When I reach out, I sense as many souls as there are stars in the sky. So b-bright with potential as to be blinding. I could feel Hydaelyn's lingering influence, that it had been gone long. I could feel it lay out before me near endless, old pinpoints wanting me to lay anchor, calling me to meet them. Like the horizon does, above. [ He stares up at Emet-Selch, brows furrowed. ] I do not know if it was 'all of it', but that is what it f-felt like. And when you- when you told me I was wrong. She woke to my hurt. She reminded me to feel... indignant that you would speak to me like that, just as she does over her star being f-forgotten. I do not know if it was Dynamis or just the way of reflected souls, but-
[ As he speaks, the feeling flares up again, the sort of hurt, of frustration he isn't used to feeling. Viktor's voice grows heated, words spilling out of him and then slowing again as he grasps the reins of his own anger. He stops to breathe, and calm, but firm, he goes on, ] I will thank you not to assume that my soul somehow lacks simply because my body is young.
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Of course I do. That is not the answer to give. That would destroy more trust than basically anything he could say, Emet-Selch thinks. Evasion is a better tactic, for now, focusing on Viktor's own preoccupation with what Emet-Selch thought was a simple, easy no from him. ]
I fail to see how providing access between the shards' Underworlds and incentivizing rejoinings - chaotic, sloppy rejoinings, potentially fundamentally unmaking and remaking souls in the process - is a solution you would be best pleased with.
[ It's certainly not one he likes to consider. The rejoinings they managed were not...neat, necessarily, but they ensured like called to like. Countless souls mixing and matching may sound romantic in a way, but it is not just the souls that would mix, it is their memories, their thoughts, their impressions. The countless horrors each one experienced, those events written upon the aether of their souls now mixing, melding with the others. He does not know if anything would go wrong, but there seem to be too many ways for the manifestation of all that hurt scattered about to gather, to say nothing of the other countless issues. He would be condemning all of them to a final death as they were, and would not recognize what they would be reborn as.
Viktor continues, and instead of chastised as he should probably feel, anger is what burns the rest of the feelings out. Hydaelyn had hobbled them immeasurably. Had she done this intentionally? Sliced the parts and pieces of Aepymetes that made him difficult to work with, scattered those across the shards so they would be easier to use to her ends? He could not fault the process looking at it objectively, but objectivity was hard to maintain when considering Viktor.
He does not like being wrong, but the way Viktor describes what he'd felt - fleeting as the explanation is, Emet-Selch knows he was at the very least not right. He'd assumed most, if not all of that sensation would be far out of reach. His mouth presses into a tight little line of displeasure, but he lets Viktor speak, pleased, at the very least, at the heat in his words. ]
I understand. Are we quite finished here? If you would like to be irritated at me further, I would prefer it when we're both in our borrowed quarters, warm, and ideally with a glass of wine.
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[ Viktor slips his hand free of Emet-Selch's grasp, gapes up at him, brows knit up in disbelief. Near as Viktor can tell, not one iota of contrition marks his features. There's just his lovely mouth flattened into a dissatisfied line, exhaustion seeming to weigh on him even more than usual. Again, Viktor finds himself feeling like a misbehaved pet, barking at nothing and wearing his master's nerves thin. Impossible not to let his mind wander to every stilted moment that should've been softer, every deft swerve away from a question asked, every escalation to stubborn argument. He thinks of Hades, clutching him vice tight, asking whether what he felt was love... and only seeming pained by the response. It is awful. He feels awful. And yet more dreadful is the idea that it will ever be like this, a mountain road of condescension and exhausted dismissal, dotted with twinkling glimpses of the man Viktor knows Hades can be.
And that, well- a good fuck isn't ever going to fix the hurt he feels each time he's looked at like he's wasting time. Nor will it change the fact that Viktor needed someone else to remind him that he shouldn't bear the thunk of every arrow like the brick wall the nightmare upon the First fashioned him into. They have a world to save, yes. And this is hardly important when set against that, of course(, of course, of course... right?). But- but. It would be a great deal easier if he- if they both remembered how to be proper people.
Viktor ruffles his fingers through his curls, fluffing them, and takes two paces back. In a voice that brokers no argument, he says, ] Aye. You head back. Get warmed up. I will make my way on foot. Ensure nothing's s-stirred in our stomping down here and see to getting the root cellar back in order.
[ He needs the time to cool off. Too close to percolating with unproductive hurt and anger, too tired of arguing to do this down here before an audience of half-sleeping mirror images of souls he knows better. But that isn't the only reason.
It isn't easy, going on, but Viktor has ever had a knack for scraping up the will to do things he didn't want to do. ]
That should give you ample time to decide how you intend to apologize to me for minimizing my f-feelings. A proper apology. And after, if you wish, we can discuss why I thought it more peaceful to allow Sea-bound souls to decide on their own terms whether and how they will bind together. On that, I s-spoke from a place of ignorance, not understanding what might occur.
[ He pauses, flat expression hiding his hurt, ears flopped back, showing it plainly. ]
I will see you in our room.
[ Viktor turns, anger clamped in the pit of his gut, and makes for the newly formed doorway. Rather than try the door itself, which he knows is locked, he flattens his palm against one of the massive stone slabs that make up the wall around it. Fingers press against Emet-Selch's spellwork. It is unyielding, set in place, but Viktor isn't in the mood to be stopped - this aether is as much his as Emet-Selch's by right.
He threads a little bit of his anger in when he pushes again, and this time, the stone gives way. Once it's gone slack, it's nothing to slip his fingers between aetheric stitches and unravel a gap large enough for him to step through. On the other side, he weaves it back together, leaving a section of Thanalan sandstone, red as the burning wall, amid the black, and Emet-Selch alone at the mouth of the Underworld. ]
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Well, one certainly would not consider you particularly pleased with me right now.
[ Viktor is not, he realizes, angry, or even irritated. Hurt is a far more accurate term, which he only seems to realize upon actually daring to study Viktor, taking in the sight of his drooped ears, the tense set of his posture. Guilt is a mostly unfamiliar emotion, rare as water in the desert but he feels the first stirrings of it now as Viktor beats a hasty escape and leaves him here with nothing but the souls who'd borne witness.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, when he returns to his room - their room, the simulacra are nestled in bed, Emet-Selch reading to the shade of Viktor. Emet-Selch erases both of them with barely a thought, and reaches out to Hythlodaeus, only to pause. There's no answer. He's there. Emet-Selch stretches out his awareness and can feel the bastard, but every attempt to reach out to him is like attempting to reach through an invisible wall.
You can clean up your own messes once in a while, Hythlodaeus murmurs, and closes the connection entirely, leaving him standing in the ice-cold room, genuinely irritated for multiple reasons, now.
When was the last time he apologized properly? He's made vague concessions to Viktor here and there, acknowledged when he was too sharp, too clumsy with his words, but an actual apology - detailing where and when he went wrong and apologizing for that? He doesn't recall. It would be easier, he reckons, if he understood exactly what it was he was intended to apologize for. On some level it was satisfying to have Viktor push back against him with such intent - he'd rather that intent focused literally anywhere else, but he'd take it if needed. Viktor needed the wherewithal to get through these coming moons, certainly, but Emet-Selch found he did not particularly enjoy when that pushback was aimed in his direction.
Worse, and useless, is the knee-jerk thought that it doesn't matter that Viktor is upset because that's not the truth. It is a lie he feeds himself to assuage himself of any guilt. Emet-Selch was right; he had the knowledge and the experience, he was correct because only he understood the Underworld in this way; everyone else was dead and gone, their aether long since repurposed, reformed, lacking knowledge. But wasn't that the issue? Minimizing what Viktor could feel, which was far more than anyone alive could manage. Their bindings had intertwined them so inextricably - Emet-Selch couldn't know just what Viktor could feel. He could be certain that Viktor would not have the lifetimes of knowledge to know how to tend to the Sea, and that his awareness was undeniably less intense than the man who was ostensibly responsible, but...
How irritating. He cleans what little needs to be cleaned, starts a fire in the fireplace by hand just to have something to do, and spends the rest of his time working on busywork, waiting for the sound of footsteps in the hall, the creak of the door to announce Viktor's arrival. Hythlodaeus answers exactly none of his summons, nor his intermittent inquires, nothing but cool, clear nothingness save for amusement at his consternation. ]
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