[ overflow from here ]
[ personally, he doesn't think that someone who is several thousands years younger than him (technically) should be able to fluster him, and yet. ]
Yes, I take away a treat every time you try my patience.
[ this is not the truth, but it doesn't matter. emet-selch is too caught on that last text, on the oddest feeling of one foot in the past and the present and feeling as if the gulch between is ever-widening. a few moments later another text comes. ]
You've made your desire for grapes and cheese quite clear. Where's the garden, then? I do not intend to bring this to the Crystarium just to move all of it again.
[ it would be easy, but it's the principle of the thing. ]
[ personally, he doesn't think that someone who is several thousands years younger than him (technically) should be able to fluster him, and yet. ]
Yes, I take away a treat every time you try my patience.
[ this is not the truth, but it doesn't matter. emet-selch is too caught on that last text, on the oddest feeling of one foot in the past and the present and feeling as if the gulch between is ever-widening. a few moments later another text comes. ]
You've made your desire for grapes and cheese quite clear. Where's the garden, then? I do not intend to bring this to the Crystarium just to move all of it again.
[ it would be easy, but it's the principle of the thing. ]
Edited 2024-09-29 19:18 (UTC)
there is truly no limit to your wickedness. [ this draws a laugh out of him. ]
perhaps i will work harder to please you, if it means i might get a few extra snacks for the trouble.
[ though perhaps not as neat as Emet-Selch would prefer, viktor does take care to replace what he's rearranged, stacking what he plans on taking in a not-so-neat pile before shutting the crate and replacing the items that had been set atop it.
he gathers his own things up and makes for the door before pulling his tomestone back out to reply. ]
Lakeland. north and east of Laxan Loft, there is an isolated garden on a rise of land. you can spot the ruins of a gazebo from a fair distance away.
i will make my way there after a stop in my own room.
if 'twould be easier, i can simply give your threads a tug when i arrive, so that you know exactly where to go.
perhaps i will work harder to please you, if it means i might get a few extra snacks for the trouble.
[ though perhaps not as neat as Emet-Selch would prefer, viktor does take care to replace what he's rearranged, stacking what he plans on taking in a not-so-neat pile before shutting the crate and replacing the items that had been set atop it.
he gathers his own things up and makes for the door before pulling his tomestone back out to reply. ]
Lakeland. north and east of Laxan Loft, there is an isolated garden on a rise of land. you can spot the ruins of a gazebo from a fair distance away.
i will make my way there after a stop in my own room.
if 'twould be easier, i can simply give your threads a tug when i arrive, so that you know exactly where to go.
i will do aught in my power to spare you the immense suffering of muddy trousers, my sweet aubergine.
[ and he does have every intention of doing so, even if he teases. to his room, where he puts away all but one of Emet-Selch's sewing projects and a pendant that sings with unfinished magic. into his satchel those go, along with three blankets, a tin of the tea leaves he knows Emet-Selch favors, and a bundle of sugar cookies wrapped in a square gingham cloth.
he makes it halfway out the door when he reconsiders, comes back to wrap himself in a shawl and pull the hood up over his head. better not to risk being tied up for two bells helping his neighbors with their every need. next, down the amaro enclosure to fetch Del, who whistles at the sight of him, heedless of the cloak.
it's a short flight to Inviolate Witness, once little more than a ruined park, Viktor has come here often to clear his head — and the surrounding weeds, coaxing flowers to grow here again in the process. many moons of work, finally paid off in fragrant dots of blue and purple and red. the gazebo is still half ruined, though. he wonders if Emet-Selch will see that as a lesson in the making, as well.
speaking of- as he fetches the blankets from his satchel, he reaches for the braid that binds them, and strums it thoughtlessly, signalling his arrival. ]
[ and he does have every intention of doing so, even if he teases. to his room, where he puts away all but one of Emet-Selch's sewing projects and a pendant that sings with unfinished magic. into his satchel those go, along with three blankets, a tin of the tea leaves he knows Emet-Selch favors, and a bundle of sugar cookies wrapped in a square gingham cloth.
he makes it halfway out the door when he reconsiders, comes back to wrap himself in a shawl and pull the hood up over his head. better not to risk being tied up for two bells helping his neighbors with their every need. next, down the amaro enclosure to fetch Del, who whistles at the sight of him, heedless of the cloak.
it's a short flight to Inviolate Witness, once little more than a ruined park, Viktor has come here often to clear his head — and the surrounding weeds, coaxing flowers to grow here again in the process. many moons of work, finally paid off in fragrant dots of blue and purple and red. the gazebo is still half ruined, though. he wonders if Emet-Selch will see that as a lesson in the making, as well.
speaking of- as he fetches the blankets from his satchel, he reaches for the braid that binds them, and strums it thoughtlessly, signalling his arrival. ]
[ He's knee deep in wreckage when he feels the little tug, straightening in an instant like that thread is laced through his spine and upon tugging it forces him up right. If he stretches he can distantly feel Viktor on the periphery of his awareness, warm and bright in direct contrast to the cellar he's digging through.
The Inn likely would not thank him for it, but he'd built an additional room off of his own quarters and masked it from sight with barely a thought. That which he does not deposit into the Crystarium's kitchens or larders goes in that room, just in case. At least they'll be set for months; no more plodding down to the kitchens to get snacks.
The ale he had been searching for successfully found at the very bottom of a ruined crate, Emet-Selch does return to the Crystarium first. Covered in dust and grime and with soggy boots from one of the cellars being flooded, he makes a cursory effort at cleaning up and changing, and then once he's collected his bounty into a bag, steps through a portal to where Viktor and his oversized bird stand with the backdrop of the start to an ocean of flowers behind them.
It is, he admits, a very lovely view. ]
Two of the cellars are destroyed, but I salvaged what I could. Did you remember the blanke- ah, good. I suffered wet socks for a good portion of that. I am not eager to repeat with a similar experience.
[ Nudging the corner of the blanket square with the tip of his boot, Emet-Selch glances over at Viktor. ]
Can your beast be trusted if I set this bag aside and we attempt to focus on growing your seeds?
The Inn likely would not thank him for it, but he'd built an additional room off of his own quarters and masked it from sight with barely a thought. That which he does not deposit into the Crystarium's kitchens or larders goes in that room, just in case. At least they'll be set for months; no more plodding down to the kitchens to get snacks.
The ale he had been searching for successfully found at the very bottom of a ruined crate, Emet-Selch does return to the Crystarium first. Covered in dust and grime and with soggy boots from one of the cellars being flooded, he makes a cursory effort at cleaning up and changing, and then once he's collected his bounty into a bag, steps through a portal to where Viktor and his oversized bird stand with the backdrop of the start to an ocean of flowers behind them.
It is, he admits, a very lovely view. ]
Two of the cellars are destroyed, but I salvaged what I could. Did you remember the blanke- ah, good. I suffered wet socks for a good portion of that. I am not eager to repeat with a similar experience.
[ Nudging the corner of the blanket square with the tip of his boot, Emet-Selch glances over at Viktor. ]
Can your beast be trusted if I set this bag aside and we attempt to focus on growing your seeds?
Two layers of blankets, even. And a third yet in my pack, in case we get ch-chilly. Your trousers will be s-safe. [ Funny to think at how Emet-Selch now braves soggy socks when, less than a year ago, he was flicking away creaky screws simply because he found the sound a little irritating. And here, now, it is Viktor who spends aether thoughtlessly, smoothing wrinkles out of the blankets and in so doing, enacting change, turning the lower blanket to something like oiled hide, sure to keep any moisture at bay.
That done, he glances up. ] 'Tis a shame about your cellars, though. [ Always a shame, to lose that which is irreplaceable, no matter how many times one sees their world brought to ruin.
That thought does not take hold, though, for Emet-Selch is right there with new distraction. He wrinkles his nose. ] Del is no beast. She is a princess. Near as clever as Grani.
[ The bird in question perks up from where she'd been running her beak along a mossy stone bench, fluffs her feathers at the sound of her name, and goes right back to what she's doing when she realizes she is not being called. It rather calls Viktor's claims into question. ]
The satchel will be fine. Come, sit with me. [ He flops back, legs stretched out, and pats the open spot beside him. ]
That done, he glances up. ] 'Tis a shame about your cellars, though. [ Always a shame, to lose that which is irreplaceable, no matter how many times one sees their world brought to ruin.
That thought does not take hold, though, for Emet-Selch is right there with new distraction. He wrinkles his nose. ] Del is no beast. She is a princess. Near as clever as Grani.
[ The bird in question perks up from where she'd been running her beak along a mossy stone bench, fluffs her feathers at the sound of her name, and goes right back to what she's doing when she realizes she is not being called. It rather calls Viktor's claims into question. ]
The satchel will be fine. Come, sit with me. [ He flops back, legs stretched out, and pats the open spot beside him. ]
[ He feels the blanket change shape and form, woven thread tightening, settling into a thicker material and he cannot help but marvel at the ease with which Viktor operates now. ]
There are others to replace. You needn't worry your too-soft heart about some flooded corridors. I salvaged what I could.
[ Emet-Selch raises an eyebrow at the bird, but doesn't argue her intelligence any further. Instead, he makes his way to where Viktor sits and makes no attempt to settle down. Instead, he offers a gloved hand, shifting one foot behind himself to brace for Viktor's weight. ]
Up with you. If you want your grapes, we ought to start with those first and foremost. Fetch your seeds, select a suitable spot of earth.
There are others to replace. You needn't worry your too-soft heart about some flooded corridors. I salvaged what I could.
[ Emet-Selch raises an eyebrow at the bird, but doesn't argue her intelligence any further. Instead, he makes his way to where Viktor sits and makes no attempt to settle down. Instead, he offers a gloved hand, shifting one foot behind himself to brace for Viktor's weight. ]
Up with you. If you want your grapes, we ought to start with those first and foremost. Fetch your seeds, select a suitable spot of earth.
Too-soft, now, is it? [ He sounds amused, doubtful, craning his neck to look up and meet his eye. Impossibly tall, he is, and nearly something ethereal, haloed in sunlight the way he is. Viktor's smile, soft and silly, speaks volumes, but he turns to his satchel to fetch the seeds he's brought, gently . ]
Ah, I see. Eager to start your own private vineyard here on the plateaus.
[ He needn't aid to stand, but he takes Emet-Selch's offered hand, anyway, and hefts himself up, teetering into Emet-Selch's space, and letting his fingers knit through the gaps in Emet-Selch's own once he's up, just a moment. Enough for a squeeze, before he parts and ambles over to a spot where weeded ground had not yet given way to wild gardens. This, he assumes, must've been a space where something had once been purposefully cultivated. Roses, he guesses. This place was likely once filled with roses.
Now, it will be grape vines.
He crouches down at a patch with sparse grass and looks up at Emet-Selch once more. ]
And which comes first, the sprouting or the soil?
Ah, I see. Eager to start your own private vineyard here on the plateaus.
[ He needn't aid to stand, but he takes Emet-Selch's offered hand, anyway, and hefts himself up, teetering into Emet-Selch's space, and letting his fingers knit through the gaps in Emet-Selch's own once he's up, just a moment. Enough for a squeeze, before he parts and ambles over to a spot where weeded ground had not yet given way to wild gardens. This, he assumes, must've been a space where something had once been purposefully cultivated. Roses, he guesses. This place was likely once filled with roses.
Now, it will be grape vines.
He crouches down at a patch with sparse grass and looks up at Emet-Selch once more. ]
And which comes first, the sprouting or the soil?
Are you not the one fretting over rotted wood and smashed glasses?
[ He hefts Viktor easily enough, only the faintest bit of magical assistance to manage the motion and then once he's settled on his feet, steps back a touch to give Viktor space to determine where best to plant.
He gives Del a lingering, dubious look but when the bird doesn't seem interested in his bag he follows after Viktor, toeing at the bald ground. ]
For longevity, you would need to alter the soil first. It has been a while, but you may wish for better drainage. To manage that, you've two options. The first option is to simply attempt to change half of the clay-like soil to gravel. The second is to attempt to introduce gravel into the substrate itself, forcibly aerating the soil as you do.
[ He hefts Viktor easily enough, only the faintest bit of magical assistance to manage the motion and then once he's settled on his feet, steps back a touch to give Viktor space to determine where best to plant.
He gives Del a lingering, dubious look but when the bird doesn't seem interested in his bag he follows after Viktor, toeing at the bald ground. ]
For longevity, you would need to alter the soil first. It has been a while, but you may wish for better drainage. To manage that, you've two options. The first option is to simply attempt to change half of the clay-like soil to gravel. The second is to attempt to introduce gravel into the substrate itself, forcibly aerating the soil as you do.
Not over rotted wood and smashed glass, but the stories lost with them.
[ Viktor rests his palm over the ground and, tentative, cautious, focuses on the earth until the make of it comes into focus. Not a tangle, but orderly lines of muted gold - the earth, the stone - interwoven with bursts of gleaming chaos, colorful little anomalies that, once upon a time, would have been the cause of a fearsome headache. Now, with the beginnings of understanding, with the skill to focus, they simply glint, lovely, and Viktor can begin to understand exactly why Aepymetes was so desperately in love with his weave. ]
And you. To lose that which you'd so carefully collected. [ A pause, his head lists to get another view of the threads beneath him. ] Gravel, I think I can manage. 'Tis quite saturated with Light, here, still. [ He tips a grin in Emet-Selch's direction. ] Do you mind sh-shiny grapes?
[ Viktor rests his palm over the ground and, tentative, cautious, focuses on the earth until the make of it comes into focus. Not a tangle, but orderly lines of muted gold - the earth, the stone - interwoven with bursts of gleaming chaos, colorful little anomalies that, once upon a time, would have been the cause of a fearsome headache. Now, with the beginnings of understanding, with the skill to focus, they simply glint, lovely, and Viktor can begin to understand exactly why Aepymetes was so desperately in love with his weave. ]
And you. To lose that which you'd so carefully collected. [ A pause, his head lists to get another view of the threads beneath him. ] Gravel, I think I can manage. 'Tis quite saturated with Light, here, still. [ He tips a grin in Emet-Selch's direction. ] Do you mind sh-shiny grapes?
[ Sometimes, he can brush away Viktor's empathy and not think about it, but other times it catches him and he wants to squirm underneath the heat and weight of Viktor's love for the most inconsequential things. He hadn't thought to grieve - they weren't old in the same way the belongings of the ancients were. They were his collection, and he collected so much over time he had accepted there would be necessary casualties of some kind. ]
Focus on the gravel, not on me. [ He drops into a crouch next to Viktor, peering at his hands and then after a beat of hesitation, looking properly. Viktor glows so brightly he thinks he ought to have accepted the offer of a hat, earlier. ]
So long as they are edible, I care not. Gravel to aerate the soil, and then - prepare your seeds and I will return shortly.
[ He does not care to make them attempt to make manure for fertilizing; rather than do that he rips a portal open carelessly and steps back onto the farm from earlier, digging in a barn shed until he comes out with a half-full bag, dropping it upon the ground. ]
Once you've tended the ground, then you may plant. 'Tis not so different from coaxing seed to flower in the Underworld; it may even be easier. The difficulty is not putting too much of your own aether to induce flowering and speed the process to fruiting. The moment you feel a drain on your aether, you will reach out to me and borrow my own. Do you understand?
Focus on the gravel, not on me. [ He drops into a crouch next to Viktor, peering at his hands and then after a beat of hesitation, looking properly. Viktor glows so brightly he thinks he ought to have accepted the offer of a hat, earlier. ]
So long as they are edible, I care not. Gravel to aerate the soil, and then - prepare your seeds and I will return shortly.
[ He does not care to make them attempt to make manure for fertilizing; rather than do that he rips a portal open carelessly and steps back onto the farm from earlier, digging in a barn shed until he comes out with a half-full bag, dropping it upon the ground. ]
Once you've tended the ground, then you may plant. 'Tis not so different from coaxing seed to flower in the Underworld; it may even be easier. The difficulty is not putting too much of your own aether to induce flowering and speed the process to fruiting. The moment you feel a drain on your aether, you will reach out to me and borrow my own. Do you understand?
As you wish.
[ It does not quite bother him, being brushed off as such. A faint sting, easily set aside. It is as Emet-Selch had said, there must be a balance. A sun and a moon, light for the dark. One to think ever of the next great and harrowing step, the other to remember that even the smallest things may have been important to someone. If he is silly for it, he is silly.
Without tools, he relies on spellwork to do his planting. Earth is easy enough to move for one practiced in White Magic, a swipe of his hand does the trick. For gravel, he finds the exact thread that changes dirt to rock, pins it in place with care, and then applies the stones to the ground the way he might have applied the same to the face of some fiend years ago - shotgun blasted. That should sufficiently aerate.
A layer of soil over that, then the process is repeated twice more, making layers.
When Emet-Selch returns, Viktor is clutching a handful of seeds between his palms. His body's preference for stillness makes it difficult to stir them from their slumber, and he can't help but wonder whether his own aether will negatively affect the taste, but eventually, he settles on planting. ]
Aye. Aye. No over-d-doing it. I am not a ch-child. [ He frowns as he sets the seeds into the earth, and hasn't quite wiped the look away when he glances back up. ] That farm I glimpsed- on the Source? 'Twas safe? No Terminus creatures?
[ It does not quite bother him, being brushed off as such. A faint sting, easily set aside. It is as Emet-Selch had said, there must be a balance. A sun and a moon, light for the dark. One to think ever of the next great and harrowing step, the other to remember that even the smallest things may have been important to someone. If he is silly for it, he is silly.
Without tools, he relies on spellwork to do his planting. Earth is easy enough to move for one practiced in White Magic, a swipe of his hand does the trick. For gravel, he finds the exact thread that changes dirt to rock, pins it in place with care, and then applies the stones to the ground the way he might have applied the same to the face of some fiend years ago - shotgun blasted. That should sufficiently aerate.
A layer of soil over that, then the process is repeated twice more, making layers.
When Emet-Selch returns, Viktor is clutching a handful of seeds between his palms. His body's preference for stillness makes it difficult to stir them from their slumber, and he can't help but wonder whether his own aether will negatively affect the taste, but eventually, he settles on planting. ]
Aye. Aye. No over-d-doing it. I am not a ch-child. [ He frowns as he sets the seeds into the earth, and hasn't quite wiped the look away when he glances back up. ] That farm I glimpsed- on the Source? 'Twas safe? No Terminus creatures?
[ It is not the first time being awkward about having empathy extended to him has made a situation difficult and it will not be the last. That does not eliminate the flicker of guilt for trying to dismiss it so quickly. They were intended to share one day with Aepymetes and Hythlodaeus. They will not be able to do so, but a handful of them shared with Viktor is sufficient. He did not spend years trying to make the wine; all he did was purchase the bottles.
Ridiculous. He shouldn't feel so irritated when Viktor has obviously suggested this with intent; of course he'd threaten to ruin it. ]
Of course not.
[ Before that sour look can curdle fully onto his face, Emet-Selch finds himself distracted with the question, with the simple surprise of finding somewhere seemingly untouched by disaster. ]
None at all. I searched while I was availing myself of their cellars, but could find nothing. My suspicion is they either evacuated with the other swathes of farmers in one of the initial waves, or- [ his shoulder rises and falls in a shrug ] The animals were well-kept. Rain kept the troughs full, their fields were flourishing. One would never know what has occurred to look at it.
[ Crouching, he presses a hand against the ground and hums when he finds the ground sufficient as if he expected anything else. ]
The difficulty after fruiting is ensuring you push to ripeness, not to a point where they rot on the vine. Were I you, I would attempt to grow as many plants as possible, and then attempt to coax them to fruit one by one.
Ridiculous. He shouldn't feel so irritated when Viktor has obviously suggested this with intent; of course he'd threaten to ruin it. ]
Of course not.
[ Before that sour look can curdle fully onto his face, Emet-Selch finds himself distracted with the question, with the simple surprise of finding somewhere seemingly untouched by disaster. ]
None at all. I searched while I was availing myself of their cellars, but could find nothing. My suspicion is they either evacuated with the other swathes of farmers in one of the initial waves, or- [ his shoulder rises and falls in a shrug ] The animals were well-kept. Rain kept the troughs full, their fields were flourishing. One would never know what has occurred to look at it.
[ Crouching, he presses a hand against the ground and hums when he finds the ground sufficient as if he expected anything else. ]
The difficulty after fruiting is ensuring you push to ripeness, not to a point where they rot on the vine. Were I you, I would attempt to grow as many plants as possible, and then attempt to coax them to fruit one by one.
on my hands and knees begging myself to write shorter tags christ fdsjafd i'm so sorry
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
clutterbitch
2024-10-01 01:00 am (UTC)(link)
[ The furrow of Viktor's brow smooths with surprise, relief. Even on the Source, life persists just as it ever had, wherever it can. It should not be so shocking. Gardens, well planted, will thrive even if left unattended, growing wild in ways you never expect.
And as to the farm's former human residents - he chooses to believe that they were among those rescued, folk who will be happy to see their flocks well when they eventually return. Who will not struggle to feed themselves as they reacclimate to their own home, who might share a harvest with neighbors, with friends they'd made amidst all this harship.
That anyone could look upon his star, glimpse these pockets of things doing and being in spite of everything, and still find this existence wanting is so utterly baffling. ]
What a happy surprise, mm? [ He allows a smile while Emet-Selch tests his work. It is more than sufficient, he knows - a master botanist would not settle for less - and cannot help but snicker at that considering hum. ] Perhaps there are many such hidden gems left to find back home.
[ He nods along to Emet-Selch's advice he flattens his palms against the earth. Easy to find the seeds amidst the dirt. Little dots of potential, not quite yet kinetic, there humming against his senses.
He shuts his eyes, focuses, finding the thread of one. It is almost nothing to dig metaphorical fingers into the make of that first seed, and just as Aepymetes had pulled his own soul apart to read its story, so too, now, does Viktor unravel thread. Except here, rather than merely read, he takes that spark of potential and guides it up the line.
Roots unfurl, life emerges, pushing up through the earth into sprouts. Viktor lifts his palms, and the growth follows, little firework bursts of green and brown as stem turns to bark and leaves explode along its length. He repeats the process with two more plants, then pauses to fashion stakes for them out of aether repurposed from nearby excess earth. Those, he sets by hand, and resumes growing as he guides each vine upon its support.
He is silent through the whole process, still not quite skilled enough to make conversation as he wades half his consciousness into the weave to Create most effectively. And also, simply enjoying the act of Making far too much to split his attention. It is, he thinks, not unlike being devoured by the work of embroidery. Each movement, done with care, with intention, requiring focus, but so rhythmic as to become rote.
Plants grow, winding upward, and finally, Viktor arrives at the most exciting part: fruit. He spares Emet-selch a beaming smile before he proceeds, proud of the work he's done, delighting in the familiar color of Lominsan grape vines, lusciously dark when set against Lakeland's sea of pale violet.
How impressively easy, how pleasing it is to grow, watching seeds become something lush and eager to be coaxed to fruiting. It is work he feels almost meant for in a strange way. Viktor hardly notices how heavy his limbs become as he feeds his own aether into the first plant, guiding buds to flower, then flowers to clusters of fruit. Larger, larger, larger.
As he lets the plant gorge itself, his mind wanders. There is, he thinks, a hopefully not-too-distant future where he tends a garden, one he can call his. There, Emet-Selch sits at a table, sips his lunchtime tea, watching him work as he complains about some new and complicated matter Sharlayan has set in their lap. Some bit of business that will call the two of them to the far reaches of their star once more.
Their future, Viktor thinks, a little dizzy.
He has been acquainted with his limits before. Near more times than can be counted, in fact. They are old friends at this point, he and his breaking point, met briefly before he is wrenched back, ever pulled to heel by Hydaelyn.
Except, Hydaelyn isn't here anymore.
Clumps of green ripen to wisteria colors cast with a silver sheen as they continue to swell. And that is where Viktor finds his limit, in the wrongness of the color, in the glow. Time seems to slow, then, pulled out infinite, like the moments captured between Nabriales's palms. Viktor turns to Emet-Selch, but the action takes more effort than he expects. He extends a hand, palm open, meaning to grasp for the greater pool of aether, except-
Except the hungry plant he's fostered has him. And it is not he who guides growth, but the plant that pulls him along. Viktor feels himself go thin as the grape vine siphons him nearly dry. The world spins and hums, vibrant and beautiful, an explosive riot of colors as everything around him becomes thread, more gleaming and gorgeous than dragon fire, more blinding than a Warden's Light. ]
I feel w-weak.
[ His spool reaches its end. His arm, too heavy to lift, falls limp to his side once more as the plant before him erupts with monstrous new growth. There is no bright burst, no horrible noise or calamity. Viktor simply falls, the vines sprawling out to embrace him, twining over legs and arms, warm and familiar - his own aether, made green, embracing him, as twilight fades to dark. ]
And as to the farm's former human residents - he chooses to believe that they were among those rescued, folk who will be happy to see their flocks well when they eventually return. Who will not struggle to feed themselves as they reacclimate to their own home, who might share a harvest with neighbors, with friends they'd made amidst all this harship.
That anyone could look upon his star, glimpse these pockets of things doing and being in spite of everything, and still find this existence wanting is so utterly baffling. ]
What a happy surprise, mm? [ He allows a smile while Emet-Selch tests his work. It is more than sufficient, he knows - a master botanist would not settle for less - and cannot help but snicker at that considering hum. ] Perhaps there are many such hidden gems left to find back home.
[ He nods along to Emet-Selch's advice he flattens his palms against the earth. Easy to find the seeds amidst the dirt. Little dots of potential, not quite yet kinetic, there humming against his senses.
He shuts his eyes, focuses, finding the thread of one. It is almost nothing to dig metaphorical fingers into the make of that first seed, and just as Aepymetes had pulled his own soul apart to read its story, so too, now, does Viktor unravel thread. Except here, rather than merely read, he takes that spark of potential and guides it up the line.
Roots unfurl, life emerges, pushing up through the earth into sprouts. Viktor lifts his palms, and the growth follows, little firework bursts of green and brown as stem turns to bark and leaves explode along its length. He repeats the process with two more plants, then pauses to fashion stakes for them out of aether repurposed from nearby excess earth. Those, he sets by hand, and resumes growing as he guides each vine upon its support.
He is silent through the whole process, still not quite skilled enough to make conversation as he wades half his consciousness into the weave to Create most effectively. And also, simply enjoying the act of Making far too much to split his attention. It is, he thinks, not unlike being devoured by the work of embroidery. Each movement, done with care, with intention, requiring focus, but so rhythmic as to become rote.
Plants grow, winding upward, and finally, Viktor arrives at the most exciting part: fruit. He spares Emet-selch a beaming smile before he proceeds, proud of the work he's done, delighting in the familiar color of Lominsan grape vines, lusciously dark when set against Lakeland's sea of pale violet.
How impressively easy, how pleasing it is to grow, watching seeds become something lush and eager to be coaxed to fruiting. It is work he feels almost meant for in a strange way. Viktor hardly notices how heavy his limbs become as he feeds his own aether into the first plant, guiding buds to flower, then flowers to clusters of fruit. Larger, larger, larger.
As he lets the plant gorge itself, his mind wanders. There is, he thinks, a hopefully not-too-distant future where he tends a garden, one he can call his. There, Emet-Selch sits at a table, sips his lunchtime tea, watching him work as he complains about some new and complicated matter Sharlayan has set in their lap. Some bit of business that will call the two of them to the far reaches of their star once more.
Their future, Viktor thinks, a little dizzy.
He has been acquainted with his limits before. Near more times than can be counted, in fact. They are old friends at this point, he and his breaking point, met briefly before he is wrenched back, ever pulled to heel by Hydaelyn.
Except, Hydaelyn isn't here anymore.
Clumps of green ripen to wisteria colors cast with a silver sheen as they continue to swell. And that is where Viktor finds his limit, in the wrongness of the color, in the glow. Time seems to slow, then, pulled out infinite, like the moments captured between Nabriales's palms. Viktor turns to Emet-Selch, but the action takes more effort than he expects. He extends a hand, palm open, meaning to grasp for the greater pool of aether, except-
Except the hungry plant he's fostered has him. And it is not he who guides growth, but the plant that pulls him along. Viktor feels himself go thin as the grape vine siphons him nearly dry. The world spins and hums, vibrant and beautiful, an explosive riot of colors as everything around him becomes thread, more gleaming and gorgeous than dragon fire, more blinding than a Warden's Light. ]
I feel w-weak.
[ His spool reaches its end. His arm, too heavy to lift, falls limp to his side once more as the plant before him erupts with monstrous new growth. There is no bright burst, no horrible noise or calamity. Viktor simply falls, the vines sprawling out to embrace him, twining over legs and arms, warm and familiar - his own aether, made green, embracing him, as twilight fades to dark. ]
[ He finds himself consistently surprised; maybe he should not be at this point. How many times does Viktor need to prove himself better than what Emet-Selch anticipates for him to finally raise the bar? Embarrassing. At least Viktor does not know.
While he busies himself with growing from seed, Emet-Selch sets about making ready to eat, his stomach reminding him that it has been since early morning when he'd haphazardly made eggs and piled them atop toast and then forgotten to eat half of it before getting distracted. Plates. Cutlery. Little knives for cheese because while they could use their existing cutlery, Emet-Selch sees no need to abide savagery when he's perfectly capable of creating a set that will suffice.
It is, he thinks, a little odd to be in the instructor's seat in this capacity. An unthinkable amount of years ago he'd had at least some passing interaction with youths in his capacity as Emet-Selch, be they with the Word of various other seats or a child of one of them. He does not think himself particularly adept with children, but he's passable enough. To teach an adult, over-powered and under-educated in his abilities, is entirely different. With a child, the most one might expect is a creature from a nightmare coming to life. Easy enough to dispose of, and the nightmares of children were not filled with the knowledge of actual horrors. Viktor has seen plenty of horror from which to draw.
Any of his lessons are ones he must adjust and even then, he is not certain how much is actually useful and how much simply the nudge in the right direction is all that must occur, because the soul remembers. He'd taken to every bit Emet-Selch introduced with an ease and familiarity that ached at points when contrasted with the manual labor performed in the kitchens and in the apothecary. How much more they could be, if they just knew.
If Emet-Selch taught them. If they revealed the nature of the world and how it was, and did not make evident how it was Emet-Selch came to know these abilities well enough to teach them.
A handful of yalms away, grape vines crawl across the ground and up their stakes, and Emet-Selch hides a smile despite himself, pleased. Even if they're terrible, the very fact that grapes sprouted and grew is enough. The barrier he maintains between them always feels as if it gets a bit hot when one of them uses their abilities; he doesn't know how else to describe it, even if it is an intangible heat, almost indistinguishable from holding back the full force and brightness of Viktor's soul. The barrier keeping them separate is necessary for so many reasons, one most of all that he does not wish to snuff all of that light and warmth out accidentally.
There's the briefest moment where he thinks Viktor has been awfully quiet longer than he expects which is about when he hears the other man utter an observation with no panic, no fear whatsoever. Viktor falls, a marionette with its strings cut and Emet-Selch presses his lips into a thin line, rising what feels like through sludge. Painfully slow, he makes his way over to where Viktor lies crumpled in front of his grapes.
He's raised the barrier between them ilms for bits and pieces of context, but never dared to do more than the tiniest corner. Too much and he runs the risks he worries about, but he has had little reason to lift them aside from that. This, he thinks with grim amusement, is reason enough. The warmth behind the barrier has always felt like sitting on the other side of a sunny window. The chill is pronounced, seeping through to his bones, making the process of prying his gloves off with his teeth that much more arduous.
One hand nudges itself beneath the nape of his neck, tilting his head up, angling fingers to his pulse while he plants the other atop Viktor's chest, nudging aside cloth to reach skin and flattening his hand once he does. Replenishing aether is not wholly unfamiliar, even if he is a bit unpracticed. He would rather it weren't familiar at all, but workers exhausting themselves - stars, even Hythlodaeus pouring a little too much of himself into a concept to test it and refusing to ask Emet-Selch despite him being there - ]
Is it so hard to listen to me when I speak? [ Despite the sharp edge to his tone, his touch is gentle. When he feeds his own aether into Viktor, following the a guide thread to the rest of the weave, he is gentle. It is not an ocean of force shoving aether back into him, forcibly resuscitating him. Like coaxing the embers of a flame to relight, adding small kindling first and only graduating to larger pieces once he's certain he won't smother the flames. Slowly, the warmth comes back, slowly his vision fills with gold once again and he's never been so glad to look at something and feel his eyes ache a little. Whether or not Viktor can hear him as he works, Emet-Selch complains. ] One plant's fruit at a time. One. Not the whole damned grove, not the largest possible grapes that one could conceivably force a vine to bear. One. And to warn me. I was quite clear on that point as well, you know.
While he busies himself with growing from seed, Emet-Selch sets about making ready to eat, his stomach reminding him that it has been since early morning when he'd haphazardly made eggs and piled them atop toast and then forgotten to eat half of it before getting distracted. Plates. Cutlery. Little knives for cheese because while they could use their existing cutlery, Emet-Selch sees no need to abide savagery when he's perfectly capable of creating a set that will suffice.
It is, he thinks, a little odd to be in the instructor's seat in this capacity. An unthinkable amount of years ago he'd had at least some passing interaction with youths in his capacity as Emet-Selch, be they with the Word of various other seats or a child of one of them. He does not think himself particularly adept with children, but he's passable enough. To teach an adult, over-powered and under-educated in his abilities, is entirely different. With a child, the most one might expect is a creature from a nightmare coming to life. Easy enough to dispose of, and the nightmares of children were not filled with the knowledge of actual horrors. Viktor has seen plenty of horror from which to draw.
Any of his lessons are ones he must adjust and even then, he is not certain how much is actually useful and how much simply the nudge in the right direction is all that must occur, because the soul remembers. He'd taken to every bit Emet-Selch introduced with an ease and familiarity that ached at points when contrasted with the manual labor performed in the kitchens and in the apothecary. How much more they could be, if they just knew.
If Emet-Selch taught them. If they revealed the nature of the world and how it was, and did not make evident how it was Emet-Selch came to know these abilities well enough to teach them.
A handful of yalms away, grape vines crawl across the ground and up their stakes, and Emet-Selch hides a smile despite himself, pleased. Even if they're terrible, the very fact that grapes sprouted and grew is enough. The barrier he maintains between them always feels as if it gets a bit hot when one of them uses their abilities; he doesn't know how else to describe it, even if it is an intangible heat, almost indistinguishable from holding back the full force and brightness of Viktor's soul. The barrier keeping them separate is necessary for so many reasons, one most of all that he does not wish to snuff all of that light and warmth out accidentally.
There's the briefest moment where he thinks Viktor has been awfully quiet longer than he expects which is about when he hears the other man utter an observation with no panic, no fear whatsoever. Viktor falls, a marionette with its strings cut and Emet-Selch presses his lips into a thin line, rising what feels like through sludge. Painfully slow, he makes his way over to where Viktor lies crumpled in front of his grapes.
He's raised the barrier between them ilms for bits and pieces of context, but never dared to do more than the tiniest corner. Too much and he runs the risks he worries about, but he has had little reason to lift them aside from that. This, he thinks with grim amusement, is reason enough. The warmth behind the barrier has always felt like sitting on the other side of a sunny window. The chill is pronounced, seeping through to his bones, making the process of prying his gloves off with his teeth that much more arduous.
One hand nudges itself beneath the nape of his neck, tilting his head up, angling fingers to his pulse while he plants the other atop Viktor's chest, nudging aside cloth to reach skin and flattening his hand once he does. Replenishing aether is not wholly unfamiliar, even if he is a bit unpracticed. He would rather it weren't familiar at all, but workers exhausting themselves - stars, even Hythlodaeus pouring a little too much of himself into a concept to test it and refusing to ask Emet-Selch despite him being there - ]
Is it so hard to listen to me when I speak? [ Despite the sharp edge to his tone, his touch is gentle. When he feeds his own aether into Viktor, following the a guide thread to the rest of the weave, he is gentle. It is not an ocean of force shoving aether back into him, forcibly resuscitating him. Like coaxing the embers of a flame to relight, adding small kindling first and only graduating to larger pieces once he's certain he won't smother the flames. Slowly, the warmth comes back, slowly his vision fills with gold once again and he's never been so glad to look at something and feel his eyes ache a little. Whether or not Viktor can hear him as he works, Emet-Selch complains. ] One plant's fruit at a time. One. Not the whole damned grove, not the largest possible grapes that one could conceivably force a vine to bear. One. And to warn me. I was quite clear on that point as well, you know.
[ For the briefest of moments, Viktor is both himself and everything else, a seamless portion of the greater weave. How terrified he'd ever been of the prospect, of the looming threat he'd always felt, that he might fade into all around him. But it is lovely, in that blink, to feel no fear or hurt, to sense all the ways he is part of all around him, to know, intimately, the whole of the weave. He is embraced. He is pulled apart. Welcomed into it all without urgency.
There is a snag.
Just as the last of himself starts to slip, it catches. Tries to get away, but can't. Curled on something offered, a gift he cannot - would not ever - refuse, no matter how badly it burns. Not with heat, he realizes, waking up enough to recall that there is a difference, but cold, impossibly cutting. Though the weave beckons him, calling him to be everything and nothing, the last scraps of Viktor wind themselves around that familiar knife's edge, slow, coiling, consuming what's been given. Ice becomes fuel, becomes flame, becomes Light, as Viktor accepts an offered anchor, and all the prickling, painful nourishment that comes with it - drinks like a man parched.
Excruciating seconds of stillness tick by, Viktor motionless, a cold and empty shell in Emet-Selch's arms. By impossibly slow measures, he warms, the glimmer of him glowing as it is fed. His senses return. Before he can move, before he can breathe, he can hear, he can feel, he can think. Time has meaning, again - how long has he been out? He gains a sense of his body - did Emet-Selch take him somewhere else? Why is it so loud? A din of worry, scraps of terror and panic, underlain beneath the ever steady sound of Emet-Selch's voice.
Stop fussing, he wants to say, but can't until he draws breath. And so, he does that next. Then movement. Viktor opens one eye, just a crack, and is surprised to find himself surrounded by green. Green and nothing else, save Emet-Selch.
There, he realizes, the storm of fear not a crowd. The veil between them has been lifted, and the cacophony is that one busy, busy mind, worrying over him. Viktor lifts his hand, fighting pins and needles, the press his palm to Emet-Selch's cheek. He is so much warmer than his aether; full of life. Slow, shaking, Viktor shifts to press against the trunk of Emet-Selch's body, hungry for warmth. ]
I a-apologize. [ He says, and without the veil, the rest spills through.
His throat is dry. How does he even begin to convey these feelings? He hasn't the words, and so, he simply says, ] Are they p-pretty, at least? My grapes?
There is a snag.
Just as the last of himself starts to slip, it catches. Tries to get away, but can't. Curled on something offered, a gift he cannot - would not ever - refuse, no matter how badly it burns. Not with heat, he realizes, waking up enough to recall that there is a difference, but cold, impossibly cutting. Though the weave beckons him, calling him to be everything and nothing, the last scraps of Viktor wind themselves around that familiar knife's edge, slow, coiling, consuming what's been given. Ice becomes fuel, becomes flame, becomes Light, as Viktor accepts an offered anchor, and all the prickling, painful nourishment that comes with it - drinks like a man parched.
Excruciating seconds of stillness tick by, Viktor motionless, a cold and empty shell in Emet-Selch's arms. By impossibly slow measures, he warms, the glimmer of him glowing as it is fed. His senses return. Before he can move, before he can breathe, he can hear, he can feel, he can think. Time has meaning, again - how long has he been out? He gains a sense of his body - did Emet-Selch take him somewhere else? Why is it so loud? A din of worry, scraps of terror and panic, underlain beneath the ever steady sound of Emet-Selch's voice.
Stop fussing, he wants to say, but can't until he draws breath. And so, he does that next. Then movement. Viktor opens one eye, just a crack, and is surprised to find himself surrounded by green. Green and nothing else, save Emet-Selch.
There, he realizes, the storm of fear not a crowd. The veil between them has been lifted, and the cacophony is that one busy, busy mind, worrying over him. Viktor lifts his hand, fighting pins and needles, the press his palm to Emet-Selch's cheek. He is so much warmer than his aether; full of life. Slow, shaking, Viktor shifts to press against the trunk of Emet-Selch's body, hungry for warmth. ]
I a-apologize. [ He says, and without the veil, the rest spills through.
No use apologizing when such things will happen again. But you are sorry, aren't you? Sorry for hurting, for disappointing, disappearing, doubting. Distracted by a future not yet won. Fool. Useless. Was that death? Or more than death? Is it dying to join the weave? Not so bad. Perhaps you can grasp the feeling again, but- Would he have mourned us? Would he have fallen? No. No. No. Too much work to do. Useless thoughts. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. We are here and made whole by - familiar, like the Dark that dimmed our incandescence when Light broke - our love.Viktor shuts his eyes again as tears gather in his lashes. The gratitude he feels is near overwhelming, second only to the sense of being knit up wholly in the make of Hades, aether married, tangled, no veil between them, and yet still allowed to be himself. A glint of gold set against dark indigo. Surrounded, safe.
His throat is dry. How does he even begin to convey these feelings? He hasn't the words, and so, he simply says, ] Are they p-pretty, at least? My grapes?
[ He has to remind himself not to grip Viktor too tightly, forcibly relaxing his grip on the other man's limp form, jaw clenched so tightly his teeth squeak against each other. Both hands on Viktor, slowly negotiating their jumbled position into something marginally more comfortable, knees bent beneath himself, tugging Viktor closer when he finally starts to respond, to stir.
( Selfish boy, the voice says, but there's no heat to it, just disappointment. Shame curdles in him all the same; he'd prefer the anger, but the disappointment is worse, several times over. The body lies on the ground between them, not alive, not returned to the Underworld, but in a horrible middle ground. His fault. Our duty is not to heal, to save. Leave that work to others. We do not interfere, we do not upset the careful balance we maintain. If someone passes, our duty is to guide, not to grasp them with both hands and- )
He uses both hands to pull Viktor back, in flagrant denial of that rule. Winds the gold thread of Viktor's being around his palms like a leash no matter how badly it digs into his skin, forcibly making himself an anchor until Viktor warms by ilms. He wishes sometimes that the nature of his powers meant he gave warmth instead; how many times did he come home from working one magic or another and when greeting either of his partners, unintentionally wrested a jump from them as cold hands met their much warmer skin? Death was not warmth and life, though and he had long since missed the chance to throw his lot in with a different Seat, even if he'd wanted to.
Viktor inhales, finally, and the action is a reminder that so too must Emet-Selch. He draws in a shuddering breath of cool, crisp air, tastes green from the crushed grass, the growth of life around them and waits for a second breath, a third.
( Ow? More of a question than an actual declaration, followed by the sound of an impact- a hand on a chest, like smacking a table. This time, the familiar voice is much more insistent, gasping out an, ow?! with much more vehemence, an edge of laughter to it as if he hadn't nearly worn himself threadbare, left Emet-Selch to walk into work and find naught but his corpse.
He continues feeding aether into Hythlodaeus, sloppy, hurried, panicked, until he realizes that Hythlodaeus is not complaining any longer, he's making quiet, pained noises where he has his face buried into Emet-Selch's shoulder. While he's alive enough to do that, and it's a relief, he's not strong enough to shove back any bit of Emet-Selch's aether, and has no propensity for manipulation and so it must have felt like being frozen from the inside out, even as he was wrested back from the Underworld. Hythlodaeus never holds the event against him; he was the one at fault, he'd say, but Emet-Selch doesn't dare forget the lesson. ) ]
I think the one who allowed himself to be distracted while you worked untested magics is the fool, if we will accuse anyone.
[ The gratitude registers and is discarded, not ungratefully but he cannot even think about Viktor being grateful when of course he would save Viktor. Were it within his means to manage, of course - it was his fault. He'd been too distracted thinking of frivolous other topics, fretting about a future they have not yet made manifest, lured into complacency with Viktor's easy acclimation to what once was. He would not make that mistake again. ]
No, they're hideous. Might as well be plums. [ He doesn't study them to judge; a glance is enough to note the fat fruit hanging from each vine and he's far more concerned with the sight of Viktor, far too still in his arms even if he can, at least, feel Viktor with far more surety than moments before.
Beneath him, his knee protests at the shared weight being put on it in such a position; gingerly, he stretches his leg out and settles Viktor more firmly against his chest, never once releasing the careful touch. Always, two hands on him. Greedy. Selfish. But victorious in a way he hadn't been the last time. He tries - the moment he feels that memory bubble up, his mind not kind enough to let the edges of that fade like so many other memories he'd desperately tried to keep - he tries to stifle it, to shove it down but the veil is lifted too far and he does not dare lower it, not until he is certain Viktor will be well.
( There's so much green around them. So much life, in spite of what has occurred. Lahabrea pushes through the destruction just a few yalms away and climbs over what he cannot push, far too exhausted to manage even unmaking the mess in front of them. Before the wave of magic hit, he'd felt the embers of countless souls those they could yet save and would once whatever this was passed. He had enough aether. He could manage. Maybe not all of them, but he could try.
The issue was not his capability - the issue was trying to get out from beneath whatever spellwork kept the three of them locked in place. When the barrier weakened, Emet-Selch shoved his own aether in to strengthen it as the storm raged harder around them, and did not think to analyze why he was so certain he tasted the clear rain-water of Venat's magics. Elidibus had tried to cross the barrier, pushing a hand out through it and they'd watched in mute horror as his hand had simply divided into neat slices of meat and bone at the wrist, and then the flesh divided further. Thinner. Thinner. By the time they'd shaken the horror off and Lahabrea'd wrested him back into the ostensible safety of the bubble of magic surrounding them, Elidibus' hand was gone with neat, surgical precision.
Fix that, Emet-Selch had snarled, because Elidibus was not dying or dead, and Elidibus could heal a hand, or Lahabrea could, but they could not coax embers to flame again and he was drained enough attempting to keep the barrier up. It hadn't mattered, in the end. Whatever magic had been wrought meant those lucky or unlucky enough to survive the immediate disaster were fractured, halved, halved, halved over and over until they were unrecognizable.
Halmarut's wretched vines that Hythlodaeus spent an entire evening litigating the exact leaf shape of, survive, along with the other botany projects scattered about in dust-and-rubble-covered containers.
The barrier drops, the immediate storm over and Emet-Selch sucks in a shuddering breath, nauseous at how much aether it took to weather the storm. They do not find any survivors, but he takes fleeting, bitter pleasure in wresting aether from the flood of green around them every time one of them is injured, and when out of plants and he sees what that storm had wrought of the embers that were unlucky enough to survive, well. The malformed creatures left over aren't aware enough to know they are being repurposed for fuel, anyway. The addition of their souls to the Underworld are insignificant. A pebble dropped into a lake.)
To save Viktor takes very little of his own aether reserves and does not necessitate he dip into any held elsewhere. Bit by bit, Viktor warms, and Emet-Selch starts to knit together the veil's anchor points once again, desperately trying to keep any memories or thoughts or impulses separate with middling levels of success. Only when he's certain does he stitch the last piece down, loose, just in case, and dares to look down at Viktor. The relief at the green surrounding them feels traitorous. ]
You will tell me if any bit of you feels - off.
( Selfish boy, the voice says, but there's no heat to it, just disappointment. Shame curdles in him all the same; he'd prefer the anger, but the disappointment is worse, several times over. The body lies on the ground between them, not alive, not returned to the Underworld, but in a horrible middle ground. His fault. Our duty is not to heal, to save. Leave that work to others. We do not interfere, we do not upset the careful balance we maintain. If someone passes, our duty is to guide, not to grasp them with both hands and- )
He uses both hands to pull Viktor back, in flagrant denial of that rule. Winds the gold thread of Viktor's being around his palms like a leash no matter how badly it digs into his skin, forcibly making himself an anchor until Viktor warms by ilms. He wishes sometimes that the nature of his powers meant he gave warmth instead; how many times did he come home from working one magic or another and when greeting either of his partners, unintentionally wrested a jump from them as cold hands met their much warmer skin? Death was not warmth and life, though and he had long since missed the chance to throw his lot in with a different Seat, even if he'd wanted to.
Viktor inhales, finally, and the action is a reminder that so too must Emet-Selch. He draws in a shuddering breath of cool, crisp air, tastes green from the crushed grass, the growth of life around them and waits for a second breath, a third.
( Ow? More of a question than an actual declaration, followed by the sound of an impact- a hand on a chest, like smacking a table. This time, the familiar voice is much more insistent, gasping out an, ow?! with much more vehemence, an edge of laughter to it as if he hadn't nearly worn himself threadbare, left Emet-Selch to walk into work and find naught but his corpse.
He continues feeding aether into Hythlodaeus, sloppy, hurried, panicked, until he realizes that Hythlodaeus is not complaining any longer, he's making quiet, pained noises where he has his face buried into Emet-Selch's shoulder. While he's alive enough to do that, and it's a relief, he's not strong enough to shove back any bit of Emet-Selch's aether, and has no propensity for manipulation and so it must have felt like being frozen from the inside out, even as he was wrested back from the Underworld. Hythlodaeus never holds the event against him; he was the one at fault, he'd say, but Emet-Selch doesn't dare forget the lesson. ) ]
I think the one who allowed himself to be distracted while you worked untested magics is the fool, if we will accuse anyone.
[ The gratitude registers and is discarded, not ungratefully but he cannot even think about Viktor being grateful when of course he would save Viktor. Were it within his means to manage, of course - it was his fault. He'd been too distracted thinking of frivolous other topics, fretting about a future they have not yet made manifest, lured into complacency with Viktor's easy acclimation to what once was. He would not make that mistake again. ]
No, they're hideous. Might as well be plums. [ He doesn't study them to judge; a glance is enough to note the fat fruit hanging from each vine and he's far more concerned with the sight of Viktor, far too still in his arms even if he can, at least, feel Viktor with far more surety than moments before.
Beneath him, his knee protests at the shared weight being put on it in such a position; gingerly, he stretches his leg out and settles Viktor more firmly against his chest, never once releasing the careful touch. Always, two hands on him. Greedy. Selfish. But victorious in a way he hadn't been the last time. He tries - the moment he feels that memory bubble up, his mind not kind enough to let the edges of that fade like so many other memories he'd desperately tried to keep - he tries to stifle it, to shove it down but the veil is lifted too far and he does not dare lower it, not until he is certain Viktor will be well.
( There's so much green around them. So much life, in spite of what has occurred. Lahabrea pushes through the destruction just a few yalms away and climbs over what he cannot push, far too exhausted to manage even unmaking the mess in front of them. Before the wave of magic hit, he'd felt the embers of countless souls those they could yet save and would once whatever this was passed. He had enough aether. He could manage. Maybe not all of them, but he could try.
The issue was not his capability - the issue was trying to get out from beneath whatever spellwork kept the three of them locked in place. When the barrier weakened, Emet-Selch shoved his own aether in to strengthen it as the storm raged harder around them, and did not think to analyze why he was so certain he tasted the clear rain-water of Venat's magics. Elidibus had tried to cross the barrier, pushing a hand out through it and they'd watched in mute horror as his hand had simply divided into neat slices of meat and bone at the wrist, and then the flesh divided further. Thinner. Thinner. By the time they'd shaken the horror off and Lahabrea'd wrested him back into the ostensible safety of the bubble of magic surrounding them, Elidibus' hand was gone with neat, surgical precision.
Fix that, Emet-Selch had snarled, because Elidibus was not dying or dead, and Elidibus could heal a hand, or Lahabrea could, but they could not coax embers to flame again and he was drained enough attempting to keep the barrier up. It hadn't mattered, in the end. Whatever magic had been wrought meant those lucky or unlucky enough to survive the immediate disaster were fractured, halved, halved, halved over and over until they were unrecognizable.
Halmarut's wretched vines that Hythlodaeus spent an entire evening litigating the exact leaf shape of, survive, along with the other botany projects scattered about in dust-and-rubble-covered containers.
The barrier drops, the immediate storm over and Emet-Selch sucks in a shuddering breath, nauseous at how much aether it took to weather the storm. They do not find any survivors, but he takes fleeting, bitter pleasure in wresting aether from the flood of green around them every time one of them is injured, and when out of plants and he sees what that storm had wrought of the embers that were unlucky enough to survive, well. The malformed creatures left over aren't aware enough to know they are being repurposed for fuel, anyway. The addition of their souls to the Underworld are insignificant. A pebble dropped into a lake.)
To save Viktor takes very little of his own aether reserves and does not necessitate he dip into any held elsewhere. Bit by bit, Viktor warms, and Emet-Selch starts to knit together the veil's anchor points once again, desperately trying to keep any memories or thoughts or impulses separate with middling levels of success. Only when he's certain does he stitch the last piece down, loose, just in case, and dares to look down at Viktor. The relief at the green surrounding them feels traitorous. ]
You will tell me if any bit of you feels - off.
screaming crying throwing up rolling around in this tag like a dog
clutterbitch
2024-10-03 07:25 am (UTC)(link)
Plums! [ Chirped over the crashing waves of painful memory as he gazes up into Emet-Selch's eyes, meeting that focused scowl with a faint, warm smile. Then, softer, still somehow full of swagger in spite of the weakness threaded through his voice, each syllable carefully enunciated. ] I was aiming for grapefruit.
[ Unbearable, to be seen in so thorough a way. Stumbling, soft, learning moments, before time had made titanium of his heart, each one laid out vivid for Viktor to see. So many little details, slipping through his fingers before he can properly grasp them - too fast even were he well, and certainly not now, exhausted as he is. Still, it's an invasion. One Emet-Selch makes no move to stop - allows, because far more pressing than the knife edge ache of his worst memories is Viktor's safety.
Viktor bears witness to Emet-Selch's past, mistakes, fears, regrets. Each hurt rings in his heart, sharp as if the pain were his own. He lifts his other hand, slow, with effort, to cradle Emet-Selch's face in both his palms, gently holding his gaze. He is something precious, deserving of care, a soft touch. Love. ]
You are not a fool. And there is no shame in th-thinking of the future. To exist in this time, to look ahead and still see potential? 'Tis a marvel. H-how we will win this. By embracing what good might come.
[ He can feel the curtain fall between them, and it is an impossibly lonely moment. Necessary, but isolating. He lets his hands fall to his chest, still feeling weak, and makes no move to shift away from Emet-Selch's embrace. ]
Aside from the ch-chill, I am... well enough. And will t-tell you if that changes. [ Emet-Selch's aether fills him, and it feels almost like Hydaelyn's blessing. Except- Hydaelyn's Light had been warm, and her love absent. Here, now, though Viktor's fingers are numb, every thread, every atom, hums with the confirmation that he is loved. Loved enough to be let in. Loved enough to break a cardinal rule. ] There is nothing in your past, nor in your mind n-now, that could change how I look at you. Do not fret much over a mometary p-parting of our veil.
[ Unbearable, to be seen in so thorough a way. Stumbling, soft, learning moments, before time had made titanium of his heart, each one laid out vivid for Viktor to see. So many little details, slipping through his fingers before he can properly grasp them - too fast even were he well, and certainly not now, exhausted as he is. Still, it's an invasion. One Emet-Selch makes no move to stop - allows, because far more pressing than the knife edge ache of his worst memories is Viktor's safety.
Viktor bears witness to Emet-Selch's past, mistakes, fears, regrets. Each hurt rings in his heart, sharp as if the pain were his own. He lifts his other hand, slow, with effort, to cradle Emet-Selch's face in both his palms, gently holding his gaze. He is something precious, deserving of care, a soft touch. Love. ]
You are not a fool. And there is no shame in th-thinking of the future. To exist in this time, to look ahead and still see potential? 'Tis a marvel. H-how we will win this. By embracing what good might come.
[ He can feel the curtain fall between them, and it is an impossibly lonely moment. Necessary, but isolating. He lets his hands fall to his chest, still feeling weak, and makes no move to shift away from Emet-Selch's embrace. ]
Aside from the ch-chill, I am... well enough. And will t-tell you if that changes. [ Emet-Selch's aether fills him, and it feels almost like Hydaelyn's blessing. Except- Hydaelyn's Light had been warm, and her love absent. Here, now, though Viktor's fingers are numb, every thread, every atom, hums with the confirmation that he is loved. Loved enough to be let in. Loved enough to break a cardinal rule. ] There is nothing in your past, nor in your mind n-now, that could change how I look at you. Do not fret much over a mometary p-parting of our veil.
Be silent.
[ The sharpness, the irritation is somewhat mitigated by the fact he has his face buried in Viktor's curls, only so careful of the lilies crowning him, inhaling. Grounding himself. Reassuring himself that Viktor might not be entirely hale, not entirely whole, but he is here.
Perhaps most frustrating is that when the veil settles again, Emet-Selch misses the sensation of it being lifted. Not enough to be foolish and lift it once more, but for a brief, raw moment, it had been nice to know and not wonder. To have certainty of purpose, of feeling, even if it were jumbled up with trains of thought, with wherever one or both of them tugged the thread binding them.
When Emet-Selch finally manages the effort of lifting his head, Viktor reaches up and presses slowly warming hands against his face; he'd like to think he's strong enough not to lean into them, to not need the reassurance that it brings. He isn't. Hands flex against Viktor where he holds, jaw clenching momentarily as he steadies himself. ]
Yes, well. I can marvel at a future that might come when you are not attempting to wield magic unsupervised.
[ Would that he could make his aether warmer, but it has, as far as he's aware, always been cold. He'd always chalked the feeling up to the affinity he has with the Underworld, never had cause to worry or wonder about why save for very rare situations. Neither had he worried that a peek behind the veil would make Viktor think less of him, or change how he looked at him. It should. Emet-Selch wouldn't feel better necessarily, but if Viktor looked at him and found nothing but horror at least Emet-Selch would understand that instead of being given grace he does not deserve. ]
You wretched- I do not care about the veil. I do not care about your horrifically oversized grapes. [ He stops short of following up with the obvious thing - person he does care about, making a disgruntled noise instead, chin settling atop Viktor's crown once more to stare out into the distance. After a beat, a searching hand finds Viktor's and envelops them, attempting to share at least a little more warmth. ]
Growing, creating - botany, specifically, is difficult in a way that animals, creatures are not. There is an end point for a creature. Arms, legs, head, torso. There is a finality with beings that does not exist with plant life. If given enough aether and free reign - [ He stops, sighing so heavily Viktor rises and falls with the motion. ] Well. I suppose we see what happens, don't we.
[ The sharpness, the irritation is somewhat mitigated by the fact he has his face buried in Viktor's curls, only so careful of the lilies crowning him, inhaling. Grounding himself. Reassuring himself that Viktor might not be entirely hale, not entirely whole, but he is here.
Perhaps most frustrating is that when the veil settles again, Emet-Selch misses the sensation of it being lifted. Not enough to be foolish and lift it once more, but for a brief, raw moment, it had been nice to know and not wonder. To have certainty of purpose, of feeling, even if it were jumbled up with trains of thought, with wherever one or both of them tugged the thread binding them.
When Emet-Selch finally manages the effort of lifting his head, Viktor reaches up and presses slowly warming hands against his face; he'd like to think he's strong enough not to lean into them, to not need the reassurance that it brings. He isn't. Hands flex against Viktor where he holds, jaw clenching momentarily as he steadies himself. ]
Yes, well. I can marvel at a future that might come when you are not attempting to wield magic unsupervised.
[ Would that he could make his aether warmer, but it has, as far as he's aware, always been cold. He'd always chalked the feeling up to the affinity he has with the Underworld, never had cause to worry or wonder about why save for very rare situations. Neither had he worried that a peek behind the veil would make Viktor think less of him, or change how he looked at him. It should. Emet-Selch wouldn't feel better necessarily, but if Viktor looked at him and found nothing but horror at least Emet-Selch would understand that instead of being given grace he does not deserve. ]
You wretched- I do not care about the veil. I do not care about your horrifically oversized grapes. [ He stops short of following up with the obvious thing - person he does care about, making a disgruntled noise instead, chin settling atop Viktor's crown once more to stare out into the distance. After a beat, a searching hand finds Viktor's and envelops them, attempting to share at least a little more warmth. ]
Growing, creating - botany, specifically, is difficult in a way that animals, creatures are not. There is an end point for a creature. Arms, legs, head, torso. There is a finality with beings that does not exist with plant life. If given enough aether and free reign - [ He stops, sighing so heavily Viktor rises and falls with the motion. ] Well. I suppose we see what happens, don't we.
Edited (wait i don't think they say shut up. localization please) 2024-10-03 19:41 (UTC)
[ Emet-Selch commands him, but the expected childish petulance does not flicker to life in the hollow of Viktor's chest. And its absence, Viktor knows right away, has nothing to do with the lethargy that comes with being recently undeceased. Emet-Selch leans into the offered touch, clinging to him as though he might still drift away if he's let go for even a moment. It is not a fear Viktor shares.
Inside and out, he is embraced, tethered to the world by a man who once would not have hesitated to send his soul straight back to the Sea. Now, he gives of himself freely to keep Viktor whole, and what is offered is not given without thought, but with unspeakably dire intent. Hades, who knows well the cycle of souls, who has seen Azem live and die a thousand times, is unwilling to lose him.
Faced with such knowledge, how could Viktor ever allow himself to drift away? He does not deserve this sort of love, but it is all he has ever wanted. And now it is his, he will not let it go. He will guard this, them, with claws and teeth, with the full force of his will. They will not be easily separated again. ]
I know. I know. [ Soft, warm, apologetic. He hasn't better words, because there are none. Not in his lexicon. Not to adequately express regret for causing so much pain. Not to even begin to describe how ferociously Viktor loves him.
He welcomes the touch of warm hands with a sharp little sigh, guiltily loving the feel of being surrounded, consumed by him. Viktor shuts his eyes and listens as Emet-Selch seeks comfort in transforming something harrowing into a lesson - finds comfort there, himself, too, in the careful enunciation of each syllable. They are both alive, both well enough to get back to the familiar.
Viktor attempts to shift again. Odd, to have his body resist him, but he will not be denied this. Indulgent, he presses his face into Emet-Selch's chest just as the heavy sigh leaves him. Then, a thought occurs, almost funny, amid all this- ] What... do you suppose that m-means for my lilies, then?
Inside and out, he is embraced, tethered to the world by a man who once would not have hesitated to send his soul straight back to the Sea. Now, he gives of himself freely to keep Viktor whole, and what is offered is not given without thought, but with unspeakably dire intent. Hades, who knows well the cycle of souls, who has seen Azem live and die a thousand times, is unwilling to lose him.
Faced with such knowledge, how could Viktor ever allow himself to drift away? He does not deserve this sort of love, but it is all he has ever wanted. And now it is his, he will not let it go. He will guard this, them, with claws and teeth, with the full force of his will. They will not be easily separated again. ]
I know. I know. [ Soft, warm, apologetic. He hasn't better words, because there are none. Not in his lexicon. Not to adequately express regret for causing so much pain. Not to even begin to describe how ferociously Viktor loves him.
He welcomes the touch of warm hands with a sharp little sigh, guiltily loving the feel of being surrounded, consumed by him. Viktor shuts his eyes and listens as Emet-Selch seeks comfort in transforming something harrowing into a lesson - finds comfort there, himself, too, in the careful enunciation of each syllable. They are both alive, both well enough to get back to the familiar.
Viktor attempts to shift again. Odd, to have his body resist him, but he will not be denied this. Indulgent, he presses his face into Emet-Selch's chest just as the heavy sigh leaves him. Then, a thought occurs, almost funny, amid all this- ] What... do you suppose that m-means for my lilies, then?
[ Viktor is fine. He is fine. If Emet-Selch repeats that enough he thinks that he will internalize it, his heart will stop the frantic thudding, the adrenaline will taper off. Emet-Selch twines a little thread of aether around Viktor's soul all the same, a tiny, tight stitch between them to give him a better hold in the future if needed, and then bit by bit relaxes the grip on Viktor. ]
If you knew, you would not have -
[ No, not helpful. Emet-Selch trails off into a remarkably disgruntled noise and shares warmth instead, adjusting a touch when Viktor shifts in anticipation of him moving but he does not. His head drops against Emet-Selch's chest, the warmth of an exhale seeping through layers of clothes, making his skin prickle. ]
Your flowers? You, I suppose, are the garden. [ Gingerly he lifts a hand and plucks one of the lilies, smoothing rumpled hair down with his knuckles on the way to settle it atop Viktor's chest so they can both look at the bloom. ] They draw their aether from you, specifically, and run rampant I assume when you use aether best aspected toward their growth. The finality point for them exists because they are a creation, of a sort. They do not require actual earth, a stem, a root system; I would venture a guess that you act as such.
If you knew, you would not have -
[ No, not helpful. Emet-Selch trails off into a remarkably disgruntled noise and shares warmth instead, adjusting a touch when Viktor shifts in anticipation of him moving but he does not. His head drops against Emet-Selch's chest, the warmth of an exhale seeping through layers of clothes, making his skin prickle. ]
Your flowers? You, I suppose, are the garden. [ Gingerly he lifts a hand and plucks one of the lilies, smoothing rumpled hair down with his knuckles on the way to settle it atop Viktor's chest so they can both look at the bloom. ] They draw their aether from you, specifically, and run rampant I assume when you use aether best aspected toward their growth. The finality point for them exists because they are a creation, of a sort. They do not require actual earth, a stem, a root system; I would venture a guess that you act as such.
[ from here ]
When I've finished my information gathering, I will be better equipped to decide on a course of action.
Do not think your offer is unappreciated. Were I you, I may very well decide the best solution is to eliminate them altogether, no questions asked, and 'twould not be a poor plan.
[ gaia is proof, though, as is he after a fashion. how utterly exhausting. ]
You ought to ask the spoiled princeling if he recalls any particular characters offering their assistance. Those who one or two would have spoken vehemently against. Who would have nudged that which most were vaguely uncomfortable with just enough.
When I've finished my information gathering, I will be better equipped to decide on a course of action.
Do not think your offer is unappreciated. Were I you, I may very well decide the best solution is to eliminate them altogether, no questions asked, and 'twould not be a poor plan.
[ gaia is proof, though, as is he after a fashion. how utterly exhausting. ]
You ought to ask the spoiled princeling if he recalls any particular characters offering their assistance. Those who one or two would have spoken vehemently against. Who would have nudged that which most were vaguely uncomfortable with just enough.
Edited 2024-10-05 23:10 (UTC)
would that i could be searching with you. hobnobbing with nobility does not number among my skills. that was usually Alphie.
you are not having too much fun without me, i hope.
[ he gets a little melancholy thinking about Alphinaud, and does not reply for some time, busying his mind with his current biggest problem - the landed gentry presently claiming ownership of this reflection's sole known passage to the Sea. it is almost offensively easy to get information out of him. ]
not a poor plan, but there is worth in pursuing the more difficult, less certain option. if there is a chance of seeing someone live and do good, i will always take it.
he loves to wag his tongue. i've already mentioned that we might aid his people in reversing their current climate woes, and right away he placed the blame upon his disgraced uncle, who now wastes away in some tower. though he mentioned co-conspirators, he was reluctant to elaborate.
i'd head to the gaol, but acquiring leave to visit the man is proving challenging.
our charming despot is a fair bit too enamored with viera, i think.
[ ... ]
i know i said i prefer to let people live and do good but i may make an exception. just this once.
you are not having too much fun without me, i hope.
[ he gets a little melancholy thinking about Alphinaud, and does not reply for some time, busying his mind with his current biggest problem - the landed gentry presently claiming ownership of this reflection's sole known passage to the Sea. it is almost offensively easy to get information out of him. ]
not a poor plan, but there is worth in pursuing the more difficult, less certain option. if there is a chance of seeing someone live and do good, i will always take it.
he loves to wag his tongue. i've already mentioned that we might aid his people in reversing their current climate woes, and right away he placed the blame upon his disgraced uncle, who now wastes away in some tower. though he mentioned co-conspirators, he was reluctant to elaborate.
i'd head to the gaol, but acquiring leave to visit the man is proving challenging.
our charming despot is a fair bit too enamored with viera, i think.
[ ... ]
i know i said i prefer to let people live and do good but i may make an exception. just this once.
No fun, no misery. I am simply wandering through locations we used to use, finding each and every one empty. To do so is not overly taxing but it is tedious.
Foolish of him; the better option is to rid yourself of potential threats to your rule rather than locking them away, no matter how satisfying the latter option is to lord over them.
Were I inclined to a specific sort of pessimism, I would suggest that the heroes of this realm had a hand in the mysterious lack of Ascians. Have you encountered any? I'm half-tempted to make an extra stop in any tavern I might encounter if locating them becomes too difficult.
[ ok he has to be normal about this, he cannot be Too Eager, but, ]
If you change your mind, I would be present.
Foolish of him; the better option is to rid yourself of potential threats to your rule rather than locking them away, no matter how satisfying the latter option is to lord over them.
Were I inclined to a specific sort of pessimism, I would suggest that the heroes of this realm had a hand in the mysterious lack of Ascians. Have you encountered any? I'm half-tempted to make an extra stop in any tavern I might encounter if locating them becomes too difficult.
[ ok he has to be normal about this, he cannot be Too Eager, but, ]
If you change your mind, I would be present.
ah, yes, the running back and forth portion of world saving. i am well acquainted. pass.
i will let him know you think he isn't dastardly enough. surely that will have no ill effects on our already precarious diplomatic situation.
the realm's current heroes? no. but the servants whisper when they see me. had you noticed? it is not because i am a viera, as i thought. it is my flowers. there is a grave, i am told, belonging to the hero who stopped winter's spread a score prior to our arrival. blue lilies grow from the plot in spite of the cold.
perhaps a visit might put us in the direction of like-minded defenders of the realm.
[ trying desperately to stifle laughter in the presence of their problem royal. ]
OH. you are positively wretched.
i will let him know you think he isn't dastardly enough. surely that will have no ill effects on our already precarious diplomatic situation.
the realm's current heroes? no. but the servants whisper when they see me. had you noticed? it is not because i am a viera, as i thought. it is my flowers. there is a grave, i am told, belonging to the hero who stopped winter's spread a score prior to our arrival. blue lilies grow from the plot in spite of the cold.
perhaps a visit might put us in the direction of like-minded defenders of the realm.
[ trying desperately to stifle laughter in the presence of their problem royal. ]
OH. you are positively wretched.
Page 1 of 11