[ 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. ]
[ Up, incautious, hurried along by the need to burn excess energy before the bile of hurt can burn into anger, is a much faster trek than down had been. Creatures skitter in the dark just out of Viktor's view, making themselves known, but not daring to approach. He notes that intelligence, the caution, as he climbs back up through the long, winding cave, bathed in the green light of Emet-Selch's torches. He will perhaps want to know, may have an idea of safety measures that can be applied. As it stands, once Viktor can see where the narrow path ends in a larger room he turns and Creates another wall, rougher than the fine thing Emet-Selch had made with a thought, and a flat, heavy iron door.
In the root cellar, it is easy enough to move the shelf back into place. On the way out, Viktor grabs a jar of pickles and a small roll of hard cheese, fully intending to eat his feelings. It winds up being a good idea for other reasons.
A guard stops him in the hall by the kitchens, and he cops sheepishly to sneaking down to the root cellar to steal a snack. He buys the guard's silence with a charming smile and one stolen pickle, and then has an idea.
Into the kitchen he goes, trading a sweet story about being tired and hungry (and another pickle, only tentatively accepted) for a plate of tea cakes from the girls in the kitchen prepping for tomorrow's breakfast. Then, to the throne room, entry for which costs him only a bit of soft laughter at a joke that he doesn't quite get, not being from this shard, and two more pickles, plus the cheese.
Hard to hold onto his anger, he finds, when so many people are so easily pleased by a strange viera, wandering "lost" through the halls of a castle at night. He learns a few names, coaxes smiles from tired, dour guards, and helps himself to the last pickle on his winding journey to their quarters.
In the castle's great hall, on a whim, he pulls a few threads, weakening the left two legs of the lordling's throne. Amused with himself, he does the same in the dining hall, weakening the wood on the seat he assumes the lordling uses to take his meals. A bit of mischief eases what's left of the anger in his heart, and finally he makes an earnest beeline back, tea cakes and empty pickle jar in hand.
He doesn't think to feel awkward until he's right outside the door. Hurt still lingers, makes itself known with a dull pang chased by shame - shame at how readily he wishes to put this away, to forget about the gnawing doubt and pretend this is all fine. With the sort of sobriety usually reserved for facing down primals, Viktor lets himself into the room - their room. He half expects to find the room empty, cold. It is not, and the relief he feels is embarrassingly immeasurable. ]
[ He's read the same pages over and over again but if someone attempted to ask him what he'd just read, he would be functionally useless. He could probably make an effort at a lie, and have that lie be passable, but he could not recall what the last pages were. Unimportant, made all the more so when he thinks about the dejected set of Viktor's ears.
Then, Viktor arrives and Emet-Selch finds himself entirely sidetracked from any attempt at a normal greeting when he spots the empty pickle jar. His brow furrows, doing mental math on the story behind it. ]
Leftover, or have you filched from tomorrow's breakfast?
[ At least the need for tea to go with the cakes gives him something to do other than stare at Viktor. They don't have their stove or their stock of teas, but Emet-Selch did think to pack some of them so they are not bereft of choice. He, of course, brought Viktor's favorites and tries not to think about this like it's some sort of bribery as the water heats. ]
It takes years - lifetimes, even, to gain a fraction of the understanding needed to manage the Underworld. [ He trails off, irritated by how perplexingly difficult he finds the relatively simplistic solution of apologize. His initial foray sounds far too much like an excuse; worse, he can practically feel Hythlodaeus' eyes on them, delightedly watching him fumble his way through. Apologies were not a skillset he'd actively practiced in years, and yet found himself in dire need of more often than not with Viktor. It was incredibly tedious, if necessary. ] I am sorry for my dismissal of your perception. My...assumption was based on your lifespan, aye. 'Twas a thoughtless comment.
Oh, come now. They've plenty of pickles left. 'Twas only a bit of stealing from the rich to g-give to the rest.
[ A faint smirk hangs on Viktor's features, already looking less thinly drawn than he had at the mouth of the Underworld. The empty pickle jar is left on the shelf by the door, and Viktor deposits the tray of cakes on the table. He cannot know for sure whether his evening tour of the castle will have any bearing on the path this reflection will take, but he is quite sure that it is a great deal more difficult to be an effectively terrifying little tyrant when your subjects cannot help but laugh at you.
Now that he's asked for an apology, he isn't sure where the lines are, anymore. Viktor stands at the table, staring down at the cakes a moment, willing up the courage to move again. His nerves have him reaching into a pocket to run fingers over the citrine crystal tucked away there, as though he must hide the motion needed to work them out. ]
I... may've b-bought my way into a few rooms. Tampered with some things. [ A breath, pulled in, held. He forces his feet to move, stands beside Emet-Selch by the fire as he fusses with tea. Of course he's brought his favorite. Guilt climbs across his heart like ivy, but his voice stays steady as he jokes. ] Surprisingly affordable, the toll to nudge the direction fate leans.
[ He watches, quiet, as Hades starts and stops a lecture, then changes course. A proper apology. The ivy snaking around his ribs squeezes once and then relents, replaced by another wave of welcome relief. Viktor reaches up, clasps a palm to Emet-Selch's cheek, and stares into his eyes.
In a voice barely more than a murmur, he says, ] Thank you.
[ But he does not linger there. Slips away instead to sit at the table and stare at his knuckles, rough and dry from the cold. He's gotten his apology. That could be enough. But it still feels to him as though there is a gap, a blank space yet to be filled in. Whether or not he wants an explanation now, he deserves one. ]
It was not about... what I could perceive, p-precisely. [ Slow, steady, he goes on. ] I do not know how much you know of my travels before we met on the First. Garlean reports likely gave you a glimpse, but- I know that what I have endured pales in comparison to aught you have lost, and I do not mean to ask for pity, when I say... it was hard. It was impossibly hard to s-see what I saw, to do what I did, to fail, over and over, and still have to carry the banner. To lead those people into ever g-greater danger.
In order to... do it at all, I had to flatten myself. I had to stop... feeling. And- and when Fandaniel gave my b-body to Zenos. A-and after, my Scions, they- there was no time to think about what h-happened to me. They needed me to keep w-walking... [ His voice takes a watery, wandering tone, starting and stopping several times as he fights a new swell of pain. And then, quiet, flat, ] As I told you weeks ago, I- I stopped feeling much of anything, then.
[ Viktor looks up, brows up, mismatched eyes shining, fixed on Hades. ]
But you- you've made me feel s-so bloody much again. There is no man, alive or dead, who makes me angrier than you do. [ The words are leveled with no small amount of fondness and a shaky, crooked smile. ] B-but you also make me feel more... confident and curious and... happy, loved, than I have f-felt in ages. A-and so, when you... call my hurt irritation or- or dance around my questions, it... it leaves m-me feeling... weak. As though all of that- as though I should've been stronger. And I do not know how.
[ He stops, flattens both palms on the table. ]
Y-you did not know that before. And I- I reacted harshly. I will... t-try to be more measured in the future. [ A sigh. ] I cannot feel all of the Aetherial Sea, and I do not think I ever will. I understand so l-little. B-but I do hope that someday, when we've the time, you will t-teach me.
[ He has no ground to stand on when it comes to a ruling class member taking more than is needed and leaving little for the rest. That being said, he doubts the royalty here are fundamentally focused on sowing as much discord and disorder in a small amount of time as is possible; his neglect comes from selfishness, foolishness, and is altogether far more boring than playing a long (if cruel) game.
He is interested to know exactly what was fiddled with on Viktor's side that it would inconvenience the prince, but has enough sense for once not to ask and change the subject when they are ostensibly to have a serious conversation.
Neither is there a good way to acknowledge that his knowledge of Viktor was, for long periods, simply cursory. If he did show up in reports and analysis provided by his advisors, it would have been in refugee or casualty or other number projections. It was not until far later that the nameless, faceless viera became relevant, and Emet-Selch had, perhaps unwisely, trusted Lahabrea could handle it. Could handle Viktor. He couldn't, and Emet-Selch isn't quite sure he can, either. If anything, he's proven rather spectacularly he cannot. ]
Feeling things is...rather inconvenient when one has a duty.
[ That is the only allowance he'll make, daring, maybe forcing himself to look over at Viktor, who seems keen on baring his heart to Emet-Selch like he somehow thinks Emet-Selch is worthy, or will know what to do with such a gift. Worse, is the awareness that no matter how raw he must feel hearing it, to feel it must be a thousand, thousand times worse. ]
I do not think it is possible for you to be any stronger.
[ This is not a criticism. Emet-Selch utters the words with an undercurrent of grudging respect. A different sort of strength from what he'd originally considered living through the worst possible events occurring one after another, where one bears the worst in expectation of being able to unwrite later what has happened. Viktor is not even granted that potentiality and yet keeps walking forward.
Leaned against the wall, careful not to accidentally set his robes alight, Emet-Selch crosses his arms and tries to muster a useful response. ]
You needn't temper your reaction each time you are reasonably cross with me.
Having feelings is difficult when one bears the burden of duty, but... it is necessary. If- if I stop learning names, if it no longer hurts to lose the people who walk beside me, if choices that should be difficult aren't anymore, then what- what sort of world is my hand molding?
[ Viktor has never considered himself a leader in the way that Merylwyb or the Exarch had been. He has never dictated policy or given moving speeches to rapt audiences, but the reins of fate have nevertheless ever been in his hands. A leader, not standing at the top, but at the front, and there by virtue of those who have put their faith, their hope in him. It is only right, in his estimation, that their problems should be his problems, that the wick of his life is best spent to make their own a little brighter. He does not begrudge it. He does not regret his journey, his choices, the cost. He is only tired. ]
Better to f-feel. Even if it is painful and... messy.
[ He slouches, pressing his nose into his arms as he curls them together on the table, his hands tucked into his elbows. It muffles his voice when he gripes, ] And I do not wish to be cross with you...
[ Only slightly mortifying, to crack open his ribs, untangle the muscle of his heart, and be met with that familiar grim stoicism. It is familiar, though. Expected, for Hades to stand steady against the flood of Viktor's too soft heart. And there is a strange comfort to be had in that, in Hades taking the deluge of Viktor's hurt and sorrow without complaint or judgment.
Viktor rather loves him for it, but at the moment, he also wants more. ]
I wish to snack on cakes and drink tea while soaking in the bath with you. If you would have me.
[ Having Viktor easily spout wisdom that Emet-Selch could have imagined any one of them saying in the wake of the Sundering, and being aware of the fact none of them, save perhaps Elidibus would have actually internalized it to any extent, is...frustrating. It feels a little like having his nose repeatedly rubbed in his mistakes; worse, perhaps, because he knows that such a thought would never cross Viktor's mind. Viktor is simply good, in every meaning of the word.
Only feeling a little foolish for not being able to look at him, Emet-Selch turns back to the kettle, fixing two glasses with militant precision and focus, desperately trying to ignore the wretched ache in his heart. Easier, when he didn't feel things at all. Easier, when the decisions he made, ugly as they were, were justified with a purpose. Easier, when he wasn't challenged by someone effortlessly good and dragged along on that path, even if he drags his feet at times. ]
One not befitting of your grace.
[ That's the only answer, but even then, Viktor wouldn't see it like that. Anyone - even the worst, most misguided among them, are worthy of his time and attention in his mind. Maddening. ]
Start the bath, then.
[ He's not going to complain about the idea of eating something with crumbs in the bath. He won't, even if it so incredibly tempting to do. Emet-Selch pauses in placing the teacups on their saucers, casting Viktor a little sideways look. ]
[ There he goes, finding busywork to put his attention on instead of bearing the weight of Viktor's gaze. He watches the swish of fabric as Hades moves, his deft hands and their exacting measurements, doling out tea leaves and pouring water. It aches, knowing he is the root of no small amount of Emet-Selch's discomfort, and that Hades would almost certainly reject efforts to soothe for being too close to coddling. Emet-Selch speaks of grace, like what he does is something noble - does he not realize it is penance? Necessary tithe for a soul that had once abandoned its station, for a Warrior who demands so much blood to fuel his power.
Of course he would serve whatever world was left. He must, no matter the shape it takes. He hums into his arms, a noncommittal sound.
It's not that he expects to be told no, only that he doesn't expect a yes to come as easily as it does. Not after the last bell. Viktor rises quietly, brings the tray of cakes over to the table beside the absurd stone tub, and bends over to start the water. He dangles his fingers beneath the faucet, waiting until the temperature is to his liking - almost uncomfortably hot - to stopper the bath.
Fingers dance over the toggles binding his robe shut and then still. One ear angles toward Hades as he speaks, his words drawing a faint smirk to Viktor's lips. He leaves the robe done up - work better left for when Hades is standing before him - and sets to browsing salts and oils to add to the water. ]
Worry not. We are not in such dire straits that I would risk c-crumbs in our bed. [ While he waits, Viktor lifts his hands to undo the strip of leather tying his hair back out of his eyes. Curls fall loose around flowers, drooping into his eyes. Mildly, teasing, he goes on. ] Now, were the world ending, that would be a d-different story. All bets would be off, then - fried dough with fruit syrup and p-plenty of powdered sugar, right on top of the duvet.
I would return you to your quarters so fast your head would spin.
[ Just in case Viktor gets any ideas. Teacups placed on their saucers, Emet-Selch brings them over to the bath, settling both on the stone lip. There is wine he could quite easily fetch, but has no desire to partake now that they're here. He has no need for the low heat it kindles in his stomach, nor the way it sharpens his tongue.
For now, he contents himself with the fact that he can probably distract Viktor from fetching the teacakes and make do with the tea. For all that Emet-Selch'd hesitated to look at the other man, he finds his gaze drawn when Viktor lets loose his curls. There's an itch in his fingertips, aching to right the curls amongst the flowers and resisting because they'll just be mussed when they bathe.
His hands freed from their burden, Emet-Selch lasts all of a few moments of resisting while Viktor browses, and then he finds his fingers have found their way to the tiny thread toggles and buttons. His thumb hooks beneath the loop, nudging the toggle loose, baring an ilm of flesh Emet-Selch gives serious consideration to kissing. This, he manages to resist, barely. Instead, he plucks up the plate of cakes, moving it out of reach of one sitting in the bath and settles himself atop in its place, thinking himself clever for all of a heartbeat.
His index finger traces the v of flesh bared, toying at the other toggle. There are a dozen different ways to manipulate someone into doing whatever you wish. Bribery is the most boring of the options, followed shortly after by threats. The easiest solution often requires the least effort and feels the least satisfying when at its culmination. Manipulation is most satisfying to orchestrate and execute. This was, he thinks a little bitterly, perhaps no small amount of what Viktor meant when upset and the realization makes him want to nudge the plate further away, spitefully. The next words sound like they're dragged up from within, Emet-Selch's jaw tight. ]
I would prefer we left the teacakes until after the bath.
[ The second toggle loosened, released. The spill of his curls against the nape of his neck, another ilm of flesh, the knob of his spine revealed. Emet-Selch resists pressing a kiss then, too, feeling positively ridiculous, more frustrated over how attempting to do this the right way makes something irritatingly like discomfort pit in his stomach. There would be no satisfaction to be found at manipulating Viktor over teacakes, just a worse version of this already horrifically unpleasant feeling pooled in his stomach, threatening to rise to his ribs. ]
[ Viktor clicks his tongue, glancing over his shoulder to level a grin at Emet-Selch when he draws nearer. ]
Well, 'tis very lucky that your quarters so often seem to become my quarters.
[ Realistically, Viktor knows that it is nothing for Emet-Selch to Make whatever soap, salt, or fragrance he desires. Reasonable, that even when traveling, he should have an extensive collection of bottles at his fingertips. That does not stop it from feeling absurd. Though, Viktor allows, any amount of soaps feels a little absurd to someone who is still having trouble with the idea of letting go of the convenience of one bar for everything.
Baffling as it all is, he cannot deny the appeal of all these little luxuries. There is a bottle of something that smells dark and sweet, a little like a plum liqueur. It would be nice, he thinks, to smell like something so decadent. To breathe in a scent that makes him think of Hades each time he moves in just the right way. It's a lovely line of thought that ends the very moment Emet-Selch begins to fiddle with the fasteners of his robes. He stills, smiles, pleased to be touched and tended to, as though Emet-Selch cannot help but steal contact.
That smile turns crooked, incredulous when Emet-Selch next moves the cakes away. He opens his mouth to level a joke about the obvious maneuver, but the thought dies on his tongue as he studies Emet-Selch's features, the telltale if miniscule signs of too much thinking. Viktor contents himself, instead, with tipping his chin down to watch Emet-Selch's hands dance over skin and fabric, waiting for Emet-Selch to find his voice.
And oh, what a wait it is. It is not the cool air that prickles his shoulders to gooseflesh when Emet-Selch reaches out to touch him again. Were he not certain that some thought percolates, near ready to bubble out, he might think Hades was teasing him - drawing the endeavor of undressing long to drive him crazy. Even if that is not the case, it does not stop the patter of Viktor's heart from quickening.
His ears twitch when Emet-Selch finally speaks, attention settling on him, brows lifted, lips parted, curious. Viktor's eyes dart to the cakes, then back, and he smiles and sidesteps into Emet-Selch's space. Pastries are fine enough, but the real prize, what he wants more than any confection, is closeness, contact. ]
Aye, of course. [ He smiles, bright. ] No soggy bits in the bathwater. And more interesting things to s-spend my attention on, anyway.
[ Emet-Selch undoes another toggle, exposing more skin and earning a shiver that is as much about the slowness of the process as the cold air. Right away, the desire to have as little clothing separating the two of them becomes urgent, but Viktor stills himself, more concerned with the storm cloud that Hades seems to be trying to shake off. He turns, finally, putting himself before Emet-Selch, still leaning on the table.
After a moment more of watching turbulence slow Emet-Selch's movements, Viktor sets the little bottle of fragrant soap aside and reaches up, presses a palm to Hades's cheek. The touch lingers for a heartbeat, and then he slips away, turns to show Hades his back, the robes drooping around freckled shoulders as they fall away. If busywork eases the storms of his mind, Viktor can certainly find some for him to do. He scoops up Hades's hands in his own, and sets them lower, to buckles and toggles still in need of undoing, and leans into him as he does so. ]
[ The little noise of acknowledgment is as good as agreement. Viktor's right. The quarters are no longer just Viktor and Emet-Selch's, but theirs, like the links to the aetherial sea, like everything else. Like it used to be, almost. The thought is, oddly, a comfort. Almost as much of one as Viktor reaching out, pressing his hand against Emet-Selch's cheek. He allows himself the indulgence of tilting his head into it, a favored pet receiving affection from its master, inhaling and exhaling a little sigh.
Perhaps more irritating is the fact he keeps expecting for the other shoe to drop. For Viktor to realize he's still incensed with Emet-Selch's choice of words, to realize that Emet-Selch had given no small amount of consideration to the simple act of manipulation rather than asking for what he wants. Maybe, because disagreements with the Unsundered often lasted decades, centuries. When one had forever, it was nothing to have an argument that resulted in one or both parties not seeing each other for a long period of time. They are not allowed that here and now. Viktor's mortality is, in a way, a blessing, forcing Emet-Selch's hand. ]
I've done...a disservice to you, I think. [ As he speaks, his fingers keep working on the fastenings to Viktor's robe, undoing them one at a time, lingering, stroking fingers against the skin bared, tracing constellations of freckles that put the stars to shame. ] To have any part of the management of the aetherial sea, one must needs attend countless seminars, study for what you would consider lifetimes. Time we do not have.
[ It feels a little like unwrapping a present, doing this. Intentional, slow, baring each new ilm of skin, the cloth gathering and then sagging lower and lower with gravity's help. Emet-Selch finally gives into the impulse nagging at him, and presses a lingering kiss against the swell of Viktor's shoulder, nosing into the warm skin there greedily before he masters himself and continues working.
Another subject to add to their studies, then. He'll have to figure out how to best condense so much learning into so little time, but he can make a passable attempt at the effort and like with so much else, they will simply make do with what they have to work with. ]
To add a method of...transition between the aetherial seas would irrevocably change the souls within. There is a chance - infinitesimal, but a chance - it would not be an issue. There is equally a chance that to do so would cause souls to bloat and gorge themselves on each other, and we would turn the Underworld into a copy of the ruined Thirteenth. Souls would only exist to be consumed while fragmented, while those larger and more powerful gained too much to exist unchanged, transforming into...well. 'Twould put the horrors of the last few months to shame.
[ This is, perhaps, not the conversation best served whilst he undoes Viktor's clothing, but he can multitask, and blessedly, Viktor is wearing smalls beneath his robes. When the buttons are finished, he sweeps it off Viktor with all the showmanship of a magician, flicking it into the air where it reappears hung up for later wearing moments later. Any remaining clothing is divested, one at a time until there's nothing but socks and smalls left. One finger hooks in Viktor's underwear, the other arm braced for Viktor to hold onto as he starts to drag them down to fall around Viktor's ankles, keeping himself braced for Viktor to step out of them. ]
We had a goal when venturing down there. Were you able to learn what you wished? To identify a way to locate Meteion?
[ Each ilm of skin exposed by slipping robes is fresh territory for fingertips to explore. Emet-selch, ever the diligent surveyor, forges paths between speckles, and Viktor shuts his eyes to savor the feeling. Delicious, maddening, to be touched with such deliberate slowness. So distracting, Viktor only half hears when Emet-Selch eventually sets to talking. It takes a remarkable amount of effort to process his words. Viktor can half-believe this is some test of his mettle, but then, a pause.
Hades leans in and tastes his skin. Nuzzles the space so near his pulse, and Viktor bends his neck to give him room, threads fingers into his hair to offer gentle encouragement. He hums a soft protest when Hades pulls away, but does his best to listen when he goes on. Heartbreaking that even in the Sea, the cauldron of hope for their star, there should be the potential for such cruelty. Turning it over and over in his head pulls Viktor out of the moment. He frowns. ]
I s-see. [ Viktor angles his head toward Emet-Selch, glimpsing him out of the corner of his eye. ] 'Twas my th-thought that like might seek like. If not... reflections of the same old soul, then... those who had loved in l-life, who c-could not... bear to be separated again. [ A rueful smile crosses his features, fingers curling together and then parting to let Emet-Selch help him out of his robe. ] H-head in the clouds, I suppose.
[ Kindling fire anew, Hades handles his robe with a flourish that coaxes a weak but genuine smile back to Viktor's face. A huff of laughter escapes him, and then Hades is hooking fingers beneath the band of his smalls. His breath hitches. His heart aches. The faster he's naked, the sooner he can stop thinking about all the ways the world can go wrong, the better. But, a moment later, he decides to say more, softly, ] You have not done me a disservice. You have done the best you can with the time we have, and that is all anyone can hope to do.
[ His smalls fall. Viktor does not need Hades's arm for balance, but he wants it, and clutches tight as he steps out of his underwear and tugs stockings off. Unceremoniously, he drops his socks on the floor and turns to undo the cord holding Hades's dressing robe shut. Though still unsure where he is welcome, Viktor parts the robe and steps closer, into Emet-Selch's space. ]
I've made progress. [ He fiddles with the buttons on Emet-Selch's silk shirt, undoing the first of them before going on. ] If I close my eyes, I c-can feel... aetherytes, importance places, everything that m-mattered to her. A-and, were I to push, I think I could call more. Memories, hers and the lives who came before her. 'Twill become clearer with more connections. I must make them on each reflection.
[ There's a hitch in Emet-Selch's otherwise intent touches, not quite flinching but neither does he move for a breath before he catches himself. That is the ideal, is it not? Was the ideal, anyway. Return together. Discover how their edges overlap and intermingle, and then find each other, learn each other again. The thought had been a very tempting carrot at the end of a very long stick. He wonders how much of Viktor's thoughts and desires regarding their souls are his own, and how much the memory of a potential ending impressed upon his soul.
Perhaps more irritating is the knowledge that he might simply be wrong. Such a event does not occur naturally in the aetherial sea as it is. What he assumes might happen is, frustratingly, because of their work. He has no way of knowing just how drastically their work has changed the souls on the different shards, but the Thirteenth is one of the worst potential options. If he knew without hesitation, without doubt that such a thing would not occur, he might be more easily swayed. He might see the inherent romanticism in what he'd always considered a rather romantic ending, even if he would never admit it. Viktor's fingers tangle in his hair and Emet-Selch hates how easily he wants to fold at so casual a touch, how much he thinks about being touched when once he used to be able to ignore the thought easily. ]
It...could. However unlikely the chance, there is a chance, though it is the most unlikely one.
[ He knows he's treading ground he's already walked upon, explaining what has already been explained but better here not to be misunderstood, he thinks. Not with a subject that is so delicate. Not when one of Viktor's most charming traits his his inability to take no for an answer, and to physically manifest a different answer through sheer force of will.
Part of Emet-Selch would like to think that he's already seen Viktor naked a couple times, and so the novelty would have worn off. A naked body is like any other naked body, save for a few differences; the soul is the truest version of someone, regardless of what their flesh and blood resembles. He can talk himself in circles all he wants; it is wildly ineffective. Emet-Selch's eyes linger first on his shoulders and then trace down, belatedly shaking himself out of the trance and looking back at Viktor's expression as he steps in closer, fiddling with Emet-Selch's own clothing slow enough it seems like he waits for Emet-Selch to tell him no. He settles for a complaint that sounds toothless, even to him. ]
I am able to divest myself of my very uncomplicated clothing.
[ Further trips are, he supposes, not out of the question. Not ideal necessarily, not when they are not certain of the state of those different shards, but he understands the necessity of doing so. Pressed this close, the heat of Viktor's body is nearly more tempting than the hot water awaiting them; if they hadn't been wandering about in creature and cobweb-infested areas, he might not be so eager to freshen up. They were though, and even with a magic spell to clean oneself off, there was still a feeling that lingered until a proper bath or shower was had.
Viktor steps in close, eliminating any desire to think about mortality, instead replacing it with the utterly insane desire to sweep the robe on either side of him to keep all that bare skin from becoming too chill. As if they weren't going to get into the bath in a moment as if he weren't responsible for that chill in the first place. ]
And if we cannot make that connection, what then? I cannot feel any drastic changes to the Underworld as it is, but the connection is best, sharpest when actually on that shard. [ He won't know, not until he gets there, not until they check the state. ]
[ Emet-Selch should not ask questions he does not want to know the answer to, and yet. Far too curious and far too eager to prepare for the worst, it is, Viktor thinks, a lesson he will likely never learn. And if he is honest, it would be dreadful to find a version of Hades laid so low that even he had given up asking, urging inquiry, planning for an eventual future, no matter how grim.
Rather he ruminate than decide there's no use planning at all.
Viktor undoes another button as he ponders how best to answer, eases back fabric with splayed fingers to feel the shape of Hades's chest beneath his flattened palms. This touch is indulgent, studious, entirely for himself. Once he has touched his fill, Viktor undoes another button. Pushes fabric. Leans in and brushes lips against the V between Hades's clavicles.
There are other paths than this, but Viktor is not given to planning. ]
'Tis so much more satisfying to have someone else manage buttons and bangles. [ He says to fill silence, undoing another button.
Viktor is not given to planning, no. Not for lack of ideas, but for a mislike of the ones that pop into his head.
Another button, and another. Not quite so achingly slow as Hades had been to disrobe him. He seeks fewer barriers between them. More warmth, more skin.
If Meteion is a creation of Hermes, then could they not crack open the soul of Amon and wrest out a thread of what he had been? Take that and tug, like a leash, like a noose. Cruel, cruel, cruel, but effective.
Two more buttons. Viktor traces the dips of muscles, presses fingers to soft skin, certain he will never tire of feeling Hades's body.
The short answer, the worst answer, (and, if he is honest, the most likely one) he knows, is that he will burn the candle of his life to a stub to power magic he only partially understands, so long as it is their best chance of saving their star.
But that is the thing about the Warrior of Light. His responsibility is to know the short answer, the worst answer, and come up with something better. ]
If we cannot make that connection, we will f-find another way. All legends must start somewhere. If I cannot tap into what I was to s-see this through, then we will access what we are. [ Viktor undoes the last button on Hades's shirt, pushes fabric out of the way. ] Venat thinned our aether when she sundered the star, but it granted us a closer connection with dynamis. [ A breath. Viktor lifts his gaze, meeting Hades's eyes with a ferocious certainty in his own. ] I will learn to wield it. Make what needs must be done reality.
[ Still staring, one corner of his mouth tugs up. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of Hades's fine silk pants, at the delectable point where his hipbones jut and nudges the fabric down half an ilm. ]
Will you be doing the fancy flourish trick with your r-robe, as well, then?
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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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In the root cellar, it is easy enough to move the shelf back into place. On the way out, Viktor grabs a jar of pickles and a small roll of hard cheese, fully intending to eat his feelings. It winds up being a good idea for other reasons.
A guard stops him in the hall by the kitchens, and he cops sheepishly to sneaking down to the root cellar to steal a snack. He buys the guard's silence with a charming smile and one stolen pickle, and then has an idea.
Into the kitchen he goes, trading a sweet story about being tired and hungry (and another pickle, only tentatively accepted) for a plate of tea cakes from the girls in the kitchen prepping for tomorrow's breakfast. Then, to the throne room, entry for which costs him only a bit of soft laughter at a joke that he doesn't quite get, not being from this shard, and two more pickles, plus the cheese.
Hard to hold onto his anger, he finds, when so many people are so easily pleased by a strange viera, wandering "lost" through the halls of a castle at night. He learns a few names, coaxes smiles from tired, dour guards, and helps himself to the last pickle on his winding journey to their quarters.
In the castle's great hall, on a whim, he pulls a few threads, weakening the left two legs of the lordling's throne. Amused with himself, he does the same in the dining hall, weakening the wood on the seat he assumes the lordling uses to take his meals. A bit of mischief eases what's left of the anger in his heart, and finally he makes an earnest beeline back, tea cakes and empty pickle jar in hand.
He doesn't think to feel awkward until he's right outside the door. Hurt still lingers, makes itself known with a dull pang chased by shame - shame at how readily he wishes to put this away, to forget about the gnawing doubt and pretend this is all fine. With the sort of sobriety usually reserved for facing down primals, Viktor lets himself into the room - their room. He half expects to find the room empty, cold. It is not, and the relief he feels is embarrassingly immeasurable. ]
They had some leftover c-cakes in the kitchens.
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Then, Viktor arrives and Emet-Selch finds himself entirely sidetracked from any attempt at a normal greeting when he spots the empty pickle jar. His brow furrows, doing mental math on the story behind it. ]
Leftover, or have you filched from tomorrow's breakfast?
[ At least the need for tea to go with the cakes gives him something to do other than stare at Viktor. They don't have their stove or their stock of teas, but Emet-Selch did think to pack some of them so they are not bereft of choice. He, of course, brought Viktor's favorites and tries not to think about this like it's some sort of bribery as the water heats. ]
It takes years - lifetimes, even, to gain a fraction of the understanding needed to manage the Underworld. [ He trails off, irritated by how perplexingly difficult he finds the relatively simplistic solution of apologize. His initial foray sounds far too much like an excuse; worse, he can practically feel Hythlodaeus' eyes on them, delightedly watching him fumble his way through. Apologies were not a skillset he'd actively practiced in years, and yet found himself in dire need of more often than not with Viktor. It was incredibly tedious, if necessary. ] I am sorry for my dismissal of your perception. My...assumption was based on your lifespan, aye. 'Twas a thoughtless comment.
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[ A faint smirk hangs on Viktor's features, already looking less thinly drawn than he had at the mouth of the Underworld. The empty pickle jar is left on the shelf by the door, and Viktor deposits the tray of cakes on the table. He cannot know for sure whether his evening tour of the castle will have any bearing on the path this reflection will take, but he is quite sure that it is a great deal more difficult to be an effectively terrifying little tyrant when your subjects cannot help but laugh at you.
Now that he's asked for an apology, he isn't sure where the lines are, anymore. Viktor stands at the table, staring down at the cakes a moment, willing up the courage to move again. His nerves have him reaching into a pocket to run fingers over the citrine crystal tucked away there, as though he must hide the motion needed to work them out. ]
I... may've b-bought my way into a few rooms. Tampered with some things. [ A breath, pulled in, held. He forces his feet to move, stands beside Emet-Selch by the fire as he fusses with tea. Of course he's brought his favorite. Guilt climbs across his heart like ivy, but his voice stays steady as he jokes. ] Surprisingly affordable, the toll to nudge the direction fate leans.
[ He watches, quiet, as Hades starts and stops a lecture, then changes course. A proper apology. The ivy snaking around his ribs squeezes once and then relents, replaced by another wave of welcome relief. Viktor reaches up, clasps a palm to Emet-Selch's cheek, and stares into his eyes.
In a voice barely more than a murmur, he says, ] Thank you.
[ But he does not linger there. Slips away instead to sit at the table and stare at his knuckles, rough and dry from the cold. He's gotten his apology. That could be enough. But it still feels to him as though there is a gap, a blank space yet to be filled in. Whether or not he wants an explanation now, he deserves one. ]
It was not about... what I could perceive, p-precisely. [ Slow, steady, he goes on. ] I do not know how much you know of my travels before we met on the First. Garlean reports likely gave you a glimpse, but- I know that what I have endured pales in comparison to aught you have lost, and I do not mean to ask for pity, when I say... it was hard. It was impossibly hard to s-see what I saw, to do what I did, to fail, over and over, and still have to carry the banner. To lead those people into ever g-greater danger.
In order to... do it at all, I had to flatten myself. I had to stop... feeling. And- and when Fandaniel gave my b-body to Zenos. A-and after, my Scions, they- there was no time to think about what h-happened to me. They needed me to keep w-walking... [ His voice takes a watery, wandering tone, starting and stopping several times as he fights a new swell of pain. And then, quiet, flat, ] As I told you weeks ago, I- I stopped feeling much of anything, then.
[ Viktor looks up, brows up, mismatched eyes shining, fixed on Hades. ]
But you- you've made me feel s-so bloody much again. There is no man, alive or dead, who makes me angrier than you do. [ The words are leveled with no small amount of fondness and a shaky, crooked smile. ] B-but you also make me feel more... confident and curious and... happy, loved, than I have f-felt in ages. A-and so, when you... call my hurt irritation or- or dance around my questions, it... it leaves m-me feeling... weak. As though all of that- as though I should've been stronger. And I do not know how.
[ He stops, flattens both palms on the table. ]
Y-you did not know that before. And I- I reacted harshly. I will... t-try to be more measured in the future. [ A sigh. ] I cannot feel all of the Aetherial Sea, and I do not think I ever will. I understand so l-little. B-but I do hope that someday, when we've the time, you will t-teach me.
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[ He has no ground to stand on when it comes to a ruling class member taking more than is needed and leaving little for the rest. That being said, he doubts the royalty here are fundamentally focused on sowing as much discord and disorder in a small amount of time as is possible; his neglect comes from selfishness, foolishness, and is altogether far more boring than playing a long (if cruel) game.
He is interested to know exactly what was fiddled with on Viktor's side that it would inconvenience the prince, but has enough sense for once not to ask and change the subject when they are ostensibly to have a serious conversation.
Neither is there a good way to acknowledge that his knowledge of Viktor was, for long periods, simply cursory. If he did show up in reports and analysis provided by his advisors, it would have been in refugee or casualty or other number projections. It was not until far later that the nameless, faceless viera became relevant, and Emet-Selch had, perhaps unwisely, trusted Lahabrea could handle it. Could handle Viktor. He couldn't, and Emet-Selch isn't quite sure he can, either. If anything, he's proven rather spectacularly he cannot. ]
Feeling things is...rather inconvenient when one has a duty.
[ That is the only allowance he'll make, daring, maybe forcing himself to look over at Viktor, who seems keen on baring his heart to Emet-Selch like he somehow thinks Emet-Selch is worthy, or will know what to do with such a gift. Worse, is the awareness that no matter how raw he must feel hearing it, to feel it must be a thousand, thousand times worse. ]
I do not think it is possible for you to be any stronger.
[ This is not a criticism. Emet-Selch utters the words with an undercurrent of grudging respect. A different sort of strength from what he'd originally considered living through the worst possible events occurring one after another, where one bears the worst in expectation of being able to unwrite later what has happened. Viktor is not even granted that potentiality and yet keeps walking forward.
Leaned against the wall, careful not to accidentally set his robes alight, Emet-Selch crosses his arms and tries to muster a useful response. ]
You needn't temper your reaction each time you are reasonably cross with me.
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[ Viktor has never considered himself a leader in the way that Merylwyb or the Exarch had been. He has never dictated policy or given moving speeches to rapt audiences, but the reins of fate have nevertheless ever been in his hands. A leader, not standing at the top, but at the front, and there by virtue of those who have put their faith, their hope in him. It is only right, in his estimation, that their problems should be his problems, that the wick of his life is best spent to make their own a little brighter. He does not begrudge it. He does not regret his journey, his choices, the cost. He is only tired. ]
Better to f-feel. Even if it is painful and... messy.
[ He slouches, pressing his nose into his arms as he curls them together on the table, his hands tucked into his elbows. It muffles his voice when he gripes, ] And I do not wish to be cross with you...
[ Only slightly mortifying, to crack open his ribs, untangle the muscle of his heart, and be met with that familiar grim stoicism. It is familiar, though. Expected, for Hades to stand steady against the flood of Viktor's too soft heart. And there is a strange comfort to be had in that, in Hades taking the deluge of Viktor's hurt and sorrow without complaint or judgment.
Viktor rather loves him for it, but at the moment, he also wants more. ]
I wish to snack on cakes and drink tea while soaking in the bath with you. If you would have me.
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Only feeling a little foolish for not being able to look at him, Emet-Selch turns back to the kettle, fixing two glasses with militant precision and focus, desperately trying to ignore the wretched ache in his heart. Easier, when he didn't feel things at all. Easier, when the decisions he made, ugly as they were, were justified with a purpose. Easier, when he wasn't challenged by someone effortlessly good and dragged along on that path, even if he drags his feet at times. ]
One not befitting of your grace.
[ That's the only answer, but even then, Viktor wouldn't see it like that. Anyone - even the worst, most misguided among them, are worthy of his time and attention in his mind. Maddening. ]
Start the bath, then.
[ He's not going to complain about the idea of eating something with crumbs in the bath. He won't, even if it so incredibly tempting to do. Emet-Selch pauses in placing the teacups on their saucers, casting Viktor a little sideways look. ]
I will draw the line at eating in bed, though.
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Of course he would serve whatever world was left. He must, no matter the shape it takes. He hums into his arms, a noncommittal sound.
It's not that he expects to be told no, only that he doesn't expect a yes to come as easily as it does. Not after the last bell. Viktor rises quietly, brings the tray of cakes over to the table beside the absurd stone tub, and bends over to start the water. He dangles his fingers beneath the faucet, waiting until the temperature is to his liking - almost uncomfortably hot - to stopper the bath.
Fingers dance over the toggles binding his robe shut and then still. One ear angles toward Hades as he speaks, his words drawing a faint smirk to Viktor's lips. He leaves the robe done up - work better left for when Hades is standing before him - and sets to browsing salts and oils to add to the water. ]
Worry not. We are not in such dire straits that I would risk c-crumbs in our bed. [ While he waits, Viktor lifts his hands to undo the strip of leather tying his hair back out of his eyes. Curls fall loose around flowers, drooping into his eyes. Mildly, teasing, he goes on. ] Now, were the world ending, that would be a d-different story. All bets would be off, then - fried dough with fruit syrup and p-plenty of powdered sugar, right on top of the duvet.
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[ Just in case Viktor gets any ideas. Teacups placed on their saucers, Emet-Selch brings them over to the bath, settling both on the stone lip. There is wine he could quite easily fetch, but has no desire to partake now that they're here. He has no need for the low heat it kindles in his stomach, nor the way it sharpens his tongue.
For now, he contents himself with the fact that he can probably distract Viktor from fetching the teacakes and make do with the tea. For all that Emet-Selch'd hesitated to look at the other man, he finds his gaze drawn when Viktor lets loose his curls. There's an itch in his fingertips, aching to right the curls amongst the flowers and resisting because they'll just be mussed when they bathe.
His hands freed from their burden, Emet-Selch lasts all of a few moments of resisting while Viktor browses, and then he finds his fingers have found their way to the tiny thread toggles and buttons. His thumb hooks beneath the loop, nudging the toggle loose, baring an ilm of flesh Emet-Selch gives serious consideration to kissing. This, he manages to resist, barely. Instead, he plucks up the plate of cakes, moving it out of reach of one sitting in the bath and settles himself atop in its place, thinking himself clever for all of a heartbeat.
His index finger traces the v of flesh bared, toying at the other toggle. There are a dozen different ways to manipulate someone into doing whatever you wish. Bribery is the most boring of the options, followed shortly after by threats. The easiest solution often requires the least effort and feels the least satisfying when at its culmination. Manipulation is most satisfying to orchestrate and execute. This was, he thinks a little bitterly, perhaps no small amount of what Viktor meant when upset and the realization makes him want to nudge the plate further away, spitefully. The next words sound like they're dragged up from within, Emet-Selch's jaw tight. ]
I would prefer we left the teacakes until after the bath.
[ The second toggle loosened, released. The spill of his curls against the nape of his neck, another ilm of flesh, the knob of his spine revealed. Emet-Selch resists pressing a kiss then, too, feeling positively ridiculous, more frustrated over how attempting to do this the right way makes something irritatingly like discomfort pit in his stomach. There would be no satisfaction to be found at manipulating Viktor over teacakes, just a worse version of this already horrifically unpleasant feeling pooled in his stomach, threatening to rise to his ribs. ]
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Well, 'tis very lucky that your quarters so often seem to become my quarters.
[ Realistically, Viktor knows that it is nothing for Emet-Selch to Make whatever soap, salt, or fragrance he desires. Reasonable, that even when traveling, he should have an extensive collection of bottles at his fingertips. That does not stop it from feeling absurd. Though, Viktor allows, any amount of soaps feels a little absurd to someone who is still having trouble with the idea of letting go of the convenience of one bar for everything.
Baffling as it all is, he cannot deny the appeal of all these little luxuries. There is a bottle of something that smells dark and sweet, a little like a plum liqueur. It would be nice, he thinks, to smell like something so decadent. To breathe in a scent that makes him think of Hades each time he moves in just the right way. It's a lovely line of thought that ends the very moment Emet-Selch begins to fiddle with the fasteners of his robes. He stills, smiles, pleased to be touched and tended to, as though Emet-Selch cannot help but steal contact.
That smile turns crooked, incredulous when Emet-Selch next moves the cakes away. He opens his mouth to level a joke about the obvious maneuver, but the thought dies on his tongue as he studies Emet-Selch's features, the telltale if miniscule signs of too much thinking. Viktor contents himself, instead, with tipping his chin down to watch Emet-Selch's hands dance over skin and fabric, waiting for Emet-Selch to find his voice.
And oh, what a wait it is. It is not the cool air that prickles his shoulders to gooseflesh when Emet-Selch reaches out to touch him again. Were he not certain that some thought percolates, near ready to bubble out, he might think Hades was teasing him - drawing the endeavor of undressing long to drive him crazy. Even if that is not the case, it does not stop the patter of Viktor's heart from quickening.
His ears twitch when Emet-Selch finally speaks, attention settling on him, brows lifted, lips parted, curious. Viktor's eyes dart to the cakes, then back, and he smiles and sidesteps into Emet-Selch's space. Pastries are fine enough, but the real prize, what he wants more than any confection, is closeness, contact. ]
Aye, of course. [ He smiles, bright. ] No soggy bits in the bathwater. And more interesting things to s-spend my attention on, anyway.
[ Emet-Selch undoes another toggle, exposing more skin and earning a shiver that is as much about the slowness of the process as the cold air. Right away, the desire to have as little clothing separating the two of them becomes urgent, but Viktor stills himself, more concerned with the storm cloud that Hades seems to be trying to shake off. He turns, finally, putting himself before Emet-Selch, still leaning on the table.
After a moment more of watching turbulence slow Emet-Selch's movements, Viktor sets the little bottle of fragrant soap aside and reaches up, presses a palm to Hades's cheek. The touch lingers for a heartbeat, and then he slips away, turns to show Hades his back, the robes drooping around freckled shoulders as they fall away. If busywork eases the storms of his mind, Viktor can certainly find some for him to do. He scoops up Hades's hands in his own, and sets them lower, to buckles and toggles still in need of undoing, and leans into him as he does so. ]
Here, next.
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[ The little noise of acknowledgment is as good as agreement. Viktor's right. The quarters are no longer just Viktor and Emet-Selch's, but theirs, like the links to the aetherial sea, like everything else. Like it used to be, almost. The thought is, oddly, a comfort. Almost as much of one as Viktor reaching out, pressing his hand against Emet-Selch's cheek. He allows himself the indulgence of tilting his head into it, a favored pet receiving affection from its master, inhaling and exhaling a little sigh.
Perhaps more irritating is the fact he keeps expecting for the other shoe to drop. For Viktor to realize he's still incensed with Emet-Selch's choice of words, to realize that Emet-Selch had given no small amount of consideration to the simple act of manipulation rather than asking for what he wants. Maybe, because disagreements with the Unsundered often lasted decades, centuries. When one had forever, it was nothing to have an argument that resulted in one or both parties not seeing each other for a long period of time. They are not allowed that here and now. Viktor's mortality is, in a way, a blessing, forcing Emet-Selch's hand. ]
I've done...a disservice to you, I think. [ As he speaks, his fingers keep working on the fastenings to Viktor's robe, undoing them one at a time, lingering, stroking fingers against the skin bared, tracing constellations of freckles that put the stars to shame. ] To have any part of the management of the aetherial sea, one must needs attend countless seminars, study for what you would consider lifetimes. Time we do not have.
[ It feels a little like unwrapping a present, doing this. Intentional, slow, baring each new ilm of skin, the cloth gathering and then sagging lower and lower with gravity's help. Emet-Selch finally gives into the impulse nagging at him, and presses a lingering kiss against the swell of Viktor's shoulder, nosing into the warm skin there greedily before he masters himself and continues working.
Another subject to add to their studies, then. He'll have to figure out how to best condense so much learning into so little time, but he can make a passable attempt at the effort and like with so much else, they will simply make do with what they have to work with. ]
To add a method of...transition between the aetherial seas would irrevocably change the souls within. There is a chance - infinitesimal, but a chance - it would not be an issue. There is equally a chance that to do so would cause souls to bloat and gorge themselves on each other, and we would turn the Underworld into a copy of the ruined Thirteenth. Souls would only exist to be consumed while fragmented, while those larger and more powerful gained too much to exist unchanged, transforming into...well. 'Twould put the horrors of the last few months to shame.
[ This is, perhaps, not the conversation best served whilst he undoes Viktor's clothing, but he can multitask, and blessedly, Viktor is wearing smalls beneath his robes. When the buttons are finished, he sweeps it off Viktor with all the showmanship of a magician, flicking it into the air where it reappears hung up for later wearing moments later. Any remaining clothing is divested, one at a time until there's nothing but socks and smalls left. One finger hooks in Viktor's underwear, the other arm braced for Viktor to hold onto as he starts to drag them down to fall around Viktor's ankles, keeping himself braced for Viktor to step out of them. ]
We had a goal when venturing down there. Were you able to learn what you wished? To identify a way to locate Meteion?
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Hades leans in and tastes his skin. Nuzzles the space so near his pulse, and Viktor bends his neck to give him room, threads fingers into his hair to offer gentle encouragement. He hums a soft protest when Hades pulls away, but does his best to listen when he goes on. Heartbreaking that even in the Sea, the cauldron of hope for their star, there should be the potential for such cruelty. Turning it over and over in his head pulls Viktor out of the moment. He frowns. ]
I s-see. [ Viktor angles his head toward Emet-Selch, glimpsing him out of the corner of his eye. ] 'Twas my th-thought that like might seek like. If not... reflections of the same old soul, then... those who had loved in l-life, who c-could not... bear to be separated again. [ A rueful smile crosses his features, fingers curling together and then parting to let Emet-Selch help him out of his robe. ] H-head in the clouds, I suppose.
[ Kindling fire anew, Hades handles his robe with a flourish that coaxes a weak but genuine smile back to Viktor's face. A huff of laughter escapes him, and then Hades is hooking fingers beneath the band of his smalls. His breath hitches. His heart aches. The faster he's naked, the sooner he can stop thinking about all the ways the world can go wrong, the better. But, a moment later, he decides to say more, softly, ] You have not done me a disservice. You have done the best you can with the time we have, and that is all anyone can hope to do.
[ His smalls fall. Viktor does not need Hades's arm for balance, but he wants it, and clutches tight as he steps out of his underwear and tugs stockings off. Unceremoniously, he drops his socks on the floor and turns to undo the cord holding Hades's dressing robe shut. Though still unsure where he is welcome, Viktor parts the robe and steps closer, into Emet-Selch's space. ]
I've made progress. [ He fiddles with the buttons on Emet-Selch's silk shirt, undoing the first of them before going on. ] If I close my eyes, I c-can feel... aetherytes, importance places, everything that m-mattered to her. A-and, were I to push, I think I could call more. Memories, hers and the lives who came before her. 'Twill become clearer with more connections. I must make them on each reflection.
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Perhaps more irritating is the knowledge that he might simply be wrong. Such a event does not occur naturally in the aetherial sea as it is. What he assumes might happen is, frustratingly, because of their work. He has no way of knowing just how drastically their work has changed the souls on the different shards, but the Thirteenth is one of the worst potential options. If he knew without hesitation, without doubt that such a thing would not occur, he might be more easily swayed. He might see the inherent romanticism in what he'd always considered a rather romantic ending, even if he would never admit it. Viktor's fingers tangle in his hair and Emet-Selch hates how easily he wants to fold at so casual a touch, how much he thinks about being touched when once he used to be able to ignore the thought easily. ]
It...could. However unlikely the chance, there is a chance, though it is the most unlikely one.
[ He knows he's treading ground he's already walked upon, explaining what has already been explained but better here not to be misunderstood, he thinks. Not with a subject that is so delicate. Not when one of Viktor's most charming traits his his inability to take no for an answer, and to physically manifest a different answer through sheer force of will.
Part of Emet-Selch would like to think that he's already seen Viktor naked a couple times, and so the novelty would have worn off. A naked body is like any other naked body, save for a few differences; the soul is the truest version of someone, regardless of what their flesh and blood resembles. He can talk himself in circles all he wants; it is wildly ineffective. Emet-Selch's eyes linger first on his shoulders and then trace down, belatedly shaking himself out of the trance and looking back at Viktor's expression as he steps in closer, fiddling with Emet-Selch's own clothing slow enough it seems like he waits for Emet-Selch to tell him no. He settles for a complaint that sounds toothless, even to him. ]
I am able to divest myself of my very uncomplicated clothing.
[ Further trips are, he supposes, not out of the question. Not ideal necessarily, not when they are not certain of the state of those different shards, but he understands the necessity of doing so. Pressed this close, the heat of Viktor's body is nearly more tempting than the hot water awaiting them; if they hadn't been wandering about in creature and cobweb-infested areas, he might not be so eager to freshen up. They were though, and even with a magic spell to clean oneself off, there was still a feeling that lingered until a proper bath or shower was had.
Viktor steps in close, eliminating any desire to think about mortality, instead replacing it with the utterly insane desire to sweep the robe on either side of him to keep all that bare skin from becoming too chill. As if they weren't going to get into the bath in a moment as if he weren't responsible for that chill in the first place. ]
And if we cannot make that connection, what then? I cannot feel any drastic changes to the Underworld as it is, but the connection is best, sharpest when actually on that shard. [ He won't know, not until he gets there, not until they check the state. ]
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Rather he ruminate than decide there's no use planning at all.
Viktor undoes another button as he ponders how best to answer, eases back fabric with splayed fingers to feel the shape of Hades's chest beneath his flattened palms. This touch is indulgent, studious, entirely for himself. Once he has touched his fill, Viktor undoes another button. Pushes fabric. Leans in and brushes lips against the V between Hades's clavicles.
There are other paths than this, but Viktor is not given to planning. ]
'Tis so much more satisfying to have someone else manage buttons and bangles. [ He says to fill silence, undoing another button.
Viktor is not given to planning, no. Not for lack of ideas, but for a mislike of the ones that pop into his head.
Another button, and another. Not quite so achingly slow as Hades had been to disrobe him. He seeks fewer barriers between them. More warmth, more skin.
If Meteion is a creation of Hermes, then could they not crack open the soul of Amon and wrest out a thread of what he had been? Take that and tug, like a leash, like a noose. Cruel, cruel, cruel, but effective.
Two more buttons. Viktor traces the dips of muscles, presses fingers to soft skin, certain he will never tire of feeling Hades's body.
The short answer, the worst answer, (and, if he is honest, the most likely one) he knows, is that he will burn the candle of his life to a stub to power magic he only partially understands, so long as it is their best chance of saving their star.
But that is the thing about the Warrior of Light. His responsibility is to know the short answer, the worst answer, and come up with something better. ]
If we cannot make that connection, we will f-find another way. All legends must start somewhere. If I cannot tap into what I was to s-see this through, then we will access what we are. [ Viktor undoes the last button on Hades's shirt, pushes fabric out of the way. ] Venat thinned our aether when she sundered the star, but it granted us a closer connection with dynamis. [ A breath. Viktor lifts his gaze, meeting Hades's eyes with a ferocious certainty in his own. ] I will learn to wield it. Make what needs must be done reality.
[ Still staring, one corner of his mouth tugs up. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of Hades's fine silk pants, at the delectable point where his hipbones jut and nudges the fabric down half an ilm. ]
Will you be doing the fancy flourish trick with your r-robe, as well, then?
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