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ryne & emet-selch | oops this is 2200 words
Emet-Selch is halfway through the sixth version of a new hydroponics system for below the Crystarium when his door starts to creak open. Without looking, he knows it's not Viktor; Viktor would simply open the door and track half of the outside in with him. Most of the residents have no reason to bother him, or are too wary to, which leaves a small list.
"Enter. You're letting all the cool air out and the weather is far too miserable for that," Emet-Selch calls, and the door creaks obediently as the intruder nudges it open further and then closes it with a little huff, putting their weight behind it. Not one of the young children, far too small for the door he has purposely weighted against invasive little pests, then, but probably Ryne, which is interesting. He cannot imagine what reason she would have to venture over here, but mysteries these days are few and far between and so he's content to let the situation play out.
The church mouse creeps in behind him, padding over to one of the seats at the kitchen table, still at his back; he can feel her furtively scanning the room, attempting to glean what she can about him from his surroundings. Foolishly, only belatedly does he realize Viktor's belongings are yet strewn about, Emet-Selch not having bothered with laundry or cleaning up after their lessons this morning.
He's content to wait her out and have her specify just what it is she wants, for the first quarter bell. By the halfway point, she has barely moved, waiting quietly while Emet-Selch fights with numbers instead of magic or words, and by the start of the third quarter bell, he is the one who is too impatient and slowly twirls around in his chair, slouching back to regard her. As far as he can tell, she hasn't move from the perfect posture, knees together, hands clasped atop them. With anyone else, he thinks they would have gotten bored quickly, but for Ran'jit's captive bird, perhaps not.
"What is it, then?" Emet-Selch asks, when she still hasn't spoken, still looking at him with wide, borderline luminous too-blue eyes. Better than they were, certainly. The thought doesn't frustrate him as much as it once did, as much as it maybe ought to. When she still hasn't answered, Emet-Selch slouches further, arms crossed over his chest. "Is anyone dead?" A pause. "Anyone who ought not to be."
Her nose wrinkles. "No?"
"No?" Emet-Selch repeats in the same tone, lifting an eyebrow. "Was that a question or an answer?"
"No, no one is dead. Um. That should be or shouldn't be. I think." A pause. "There is no one dead right now who was...not already."
How disappointing.
"Is someone injured, then?" He cannot imagine why she would come to him instead of the healer, Viktor, but he may as well ask.
"No," Ryne answers, this time less of a question, the toe of one dainty shoe digging into the stone idly. He can feel his patience slipping; he was the one who made others play guessing games; he has no desire to play them himself.
"Trouble with your sulky shadow then, is it?" Gaia has been no more or less sulky than usual, but it is odd to see her away from Ryne, even momentarily, especially if Ryne decided to go see Emet-Selch of all people. Then she hadn't told Gaia about this visit, perhaps? Interesting. "Are you sure someone isn't dead?"
"Wh- yes, I'm sure! I would know if I-" Ryne's mouth draws into a tight line, while Emet-Selch's lips curve slowly, waiting to see if she'll say it."I would know if I had killed anyone. And - no, Gaia is fine, too."
"Well, I certainly hope so," Emet-Selch sniffs. "Then what, exactly, brings you to my parlor, little church mouse?"
Ryne had never stepped foot in Ishgard, and Emet-Selch does not imagine she's had much interaction with church mice, nor any parables about spiders and flies, but outside a brief furrow of her brow she does not question him and instead starts plucking at the hem of her dress, chewing on the inside of her cheek. "Are you terribly busy?"
"No more so than usual." A pause, an opening for her to finish her thought and there is nothing but the anxious twist of her fingers against her dress. Emet-Selch lasts approximately another minute before standing with a sigh, sweeping over to one of the high shelves laden with potions. A snap and it appears in front of her. "While you work up the nerve to ask whatever it is that brought you here, I shall put you to work. Organize these and label them - neatly, mind - by their ingredients. You do know how to read and write, yes?"
Her head bobs in a little nod and the spell holding her may as well have snapped, because she shifts in her seat, no longer doing an impression of a statue. There's the clink of bottles while Emet-Selch goes back to fighting math problems. A criminal misuse of his time, yet the one he must needs attend to as he does have the most experience with these even if he has not used this skill in a literal age. Eventually, there's a soft intake of breath.
"Gaia said that you... that after Hydaelyn, you took over your previous assignment once again." Clink, clink. Emet-Selch half-expects one of them to be dropped but none are, and so he returns to his own work, waiting for her to finish her thought. "She said your job was the management of the aetherial sea, and those who belonged to it. In it. Those...dead, or passed on, or otherwise gone."
"That is a...simple, if correct enough summation, aye." Emet-Selch turns just enough to squint at her over his shoulder. "So someone is dead?"
"No!" A pause. "Well - not...not exactly? It's just... Minfilia. The original Minfilia, from the Source."
Ah. He can see the shape of it now, at least. How interesting, that she would come to him instead of Viktor, who arguably knew the woman far better than Emet-Selch ever did. At least he can see the confusion - she is, of course, quite dead, but in the way that everyone from the past is quite dead. Shattered, reborn, twisted into something unrecognizable by time.
"Yes?" Emet-Selch drags the word out into a question, knowing the moment that he's going to turn back to his work, she's going to start talking again and so he sits in purgatory, the math sitting uncompleted, accusatory on the parchment.
"There is no way to...separate any of her that is left within me, from me, is there?" Once the inquiry is out, the floodgates open. No more clinking bottles, just Ryne speaking in a soft, furious rush after she sees Emet-Selch shake his head. No. What's done is done. Minfilia made her choice, the noble one, and Hydaelyn had not failed her in her final moments. Emet-Selch supposes She had to find success with one of them, though he'd rather it were Viktor. "If Thancred and Urianger are both in the aetherial sea- they are, aren't they?" Emet-Selch nods again, and she continues. "And they are safe there?"
"As safe as any of us are at any given moment, given the circumstances," Emet-Selch responds dryly. "But aye, safe enough."
"Then... I want to go down there." He hadn't known the Minfilia of the Source, but he had known the iterations of her here, the little songbirds kept in their cages, sacrifices to be led to the slaughter. He doesn't need to look at her to picture the stubborn set to her jaw, the tremulous line of her mouth. He'd seen reflections of it every time he visited to check on his pet project. "If you would allow it. Gaia said no one was allowed down there if they were not dead, but if you are in charge... if it is your realm, surely you could... You would be able to-"
Rather than let her keep going, Emet-Selch starts packing away the parchment to start picking at later, far more interested with whatever it is she is attempting to suggest.
"You wish to see them? An easy enough request to grant, though I think it best to at least attempt to dissuade you from this path. You cannot stay with them. They cannot return with you. We have managed to establish a very tentative equilibrium these past few moons, and as with all choices, there is intent behind them. Reason. Were we to make the journey to the Underworld, 'twould only be for a short period of time. The shards are for the living, the Underworld is for those who have passed, with few exceptions." Elidibus would return to the moon semi-frequently because Zodiark was there, but Emet-Selch could never bring himself to visit, not when the one and only time he had, so much time had passed that none of the ghosts wandering had recognized him. The only other time, was when he had faltered however slightly, and Elidibus had helped correct him. It was faintly irritating to think that the church mouse was far braver than he was, but he can at least disregard that, circling over to where she's frowning at the potion bottles, half-finished with her work. "Admittedly, I am curious why you would not broach this subject with the Warrior."
The expression that crosses her face - partially incredulous, partially a grimace, startles a snicker out of him.
"I do not think he likes to speak of...that idea. Of who we lost. How close they are even if they are far away. He would rather do the work to ensure we bring them home, instead of returning for a reminder of what we'd lost." Then, with far too much clarity and certainty, Ryne looks at him. "Gaia thought he was very similar to you, actually. She suggested I speak to you instead."
"Traitor," Emet-Selch sighs, with far too much amusement and not enough heat. "True enough. As to your original inquiry, if you worry about having any bit of the original Oracle left within you, you needn't. Your Mother, as one of Her last few acts, ferried the remnants of Minfilia's soul back to the Underworld, where it should be. She resides in the same area as your Thancred and Urianger."
The relief that seems to sweep through her surprises even Emet-Selch, who almost flinches back when she reaches toward him, grasping a gloved hand tightly, looking up at him with a smile to rival the sun. She certainly isn't Viktor's actual child, but their mannerisms - overwhelming, the both of them. "I am glad to hear it, truly. 'Tis where she would want to be. Where all of them would wish to be, if they are not able to be here with us now. I understand we cannot bring them with us, but I would still... I would still like to visit. If you would allow it. They should know the Warrior and I are well, and that you are helping us fix aught that has been broken. I think it would bring them comfort."
The laugh that escapes this time is a little too rough to be properly mocking; how the mighty have fallen, just a few months here in this place and all the soft spots he'd thought fully calcified reveal themselves. Irritating. "I think you may be giving your adopted fathers a touch too much grace with their feelings about me, but nevertheless. I must needs attend to work in the Underworld in a few days time as it is. To bring you with me would be a trifle - if-" Emet-Selch begins, louder, when her mouth opens. "If you can get the Warrior of Light to agree. He is, for all intents and purposes, your guardian for now. He need not accompany us, but 'twould be best if he were aware."
The hand clasping his tightens, Ryne nodding furiously. "Of course, I can speak to him. Or, at dinner, if he's too busy right now."
The odds of Viktor shooing her off and not making time for her are basically none, but Emet-Selch inclines his head, gently extricating his hand so he can pat her on the head, only somewhat condescendingly, not quite certain what the appropriate response here is. She beams at him, seemingly unconcerned with vaguely being treated like a pet. "Have a care when you do, hm? I would rather not deal with him being morose all evening if I can help it."
As if he thinks she has the ability to be anything but painstakingly kind. Wandering back to his seat, Emet-Selch hears the clink of bottles start back up, and the scratch of nib on parchment as she labels them as instructed. It's nearly a bell later when she seemingly finishes, stretching after standing up, handing him the leftover parchment.
"Gaia also said - she said your name wasn't Emet-Selch, that it was actually Hades, the way her name was Gaia," Ryne says, and Emet-Selch braces for a question even Viktor hasn't asked him yet, both of them hiding behind the faintly teasing Professor title. "And I thought about how... everyone called me Minfilia, because that was what they knew to call me, until I had a name, and how happy it made me when Thancred gave me a name."
"Are you getting at your point any time soon?" Emet-Selch asks, not able to shove enough impatience into his tone to be properly off-putting.
Like she knows she's struck a blow, Ryne gentles, and Emet-Selch's hackles rise further even if he's loath to admit it. "My point is... I didn't have to be Minfilia forever, and the people around me, who cared about me, were the ones who showed me that. I thought someone who cared about you should tell you the same thing. You do not have to be Emet-Selch forever." A pause, her hands smoothing down the fabric of her dress. "Hades is a nice name, if you do decide to use it. Or if you pick something else. That's all. Thank you for listening."
"Out, out, little church mouse," Emet-Selch sighs, warmer than he wants to acknowledge, despite how cool he's kept the room in protest of the misery of summer outside. "I shall let you know when next I intend to visit."
Ryne exits, and Emet-Selch remains sitting a little while longer before heading for the crate of potions, plucking one up to check her work. It is, unsurprisingly, done correctly, but each of the potions has little hearts or suns or other flourishes on the dots or commas, and he finds he is not as irritated by that as he should be, either.
"Enter. You're letting all the cool air out and the weather is far too miserable for that," Emet-Selch calls, and the door creaks obediently as the intruder nudges it open further and then closes it with a little huff, putting their weight behind it. Not one of the young children, far too small for the door he has purposely weighted against invasive little pests, then, but probably Ryne, which is interesting. He cannot imagine what reason she would have to venture over here, but mysteries these days are few and far between and so he's content to let the situation play out.
The church mouse creeps in behind him, padding over to one of the seats at the kitchen table, still at his back; he can feel her furtively scanning the room, attempting to glean what she can about him from his surroundings. Foolishly, only belatedly does he realize Viktor's belongings are yet strewn about, Emet-Selch not having bothered with laundry or cleaning up after their lessons this morning.
He's content to wait her out and have her specify just what it is she wants, for the first quarter bell. By the halfway point, she has barely moved, waiting quietly while Emet-Selch fights with numbers instead of magic or words, and by the start of the third quarter bell, he is the one who is too impatient and slowly twirls around in his chair, slouching back to regard her. As far as he can tell, she hasn't move from the perfect posture, knees together, hands clasped atop them. With anyone else, he thinks they would have gotten bored quickly, but for Ran'jit's captive bird, perhaps not.
"What is it, then?" Emet-Selch asks, when she still hasn't spoken, still looking at him with wide, borderline luminous too-blue eyes. Better than they were, certainly. The thought doesn't frustrate him as much as it once did, as much as it maybe ought to. When she still hasn't answered, Emet-Selch slouches further, arms crossed over his chest. "Is anyone dead?" A pause. "Anyone who ought not to be."
Her nose wrinkles. "No?"
"No?" Emet-Selch repeats in the same tone, lifting an eyebrow. "Was that a question or an answer?"
"No, no one is dead. Um. That should be or shouldn't be. I think." A pause. "There is no one dead right now who was...not already."
How disappointing.
"Is someone injured, then?" He cannot imagine why she would come to him instead of the healer, Viktor, but he may as well ask.
"No," Ryne answers, this time less of a question, the toe of one dainty shoe digging into the stone idly. He can feel his patience slipping; he was the one who made others play guessing games; he has no desire to play them himself.
"Trouble with your sulky shadow then, is it?" Gaia has been no more or less sulky than usual, but it is odd to see her away from Ryne, even momentarily, especially if Ryne decided to go see Emet-Selch of all people. Then she hadn't told Gaia about this visit, perhaps? Interesting. "Are you sure someone isn't dead?"
"Wh- yes, I'm sure! I would know if I-" Ryne's mouth draws into a tight line, while Emet-Selch's lips curve slowly, waiting to see if she'll say it."I would know if I had killed anyone. And - no, Gaia is fine, too."
"Well, I certainly hope so," Emet-Selch sniffs. "Then what, exactly, brings you to my parlor, little church mouse?"
Ryne had never stepped foot in Ishgard, and Emet-Selch does not imagine she's had much interaction with church mice, nor any parables about spiders and flies, but outside a brief furrow of her brow she does not question him and instead starts plucking at the hem of her dress, chewing on the inside of her cheek. "Are you terribly busy?"
"No more so than usual." A pause, an opening for her to finish her thought and there is nothing but the anxious twist of her fingers against her dress. Emet-Selch lasts approximately another minute before standing with a sigh, sweeping over to one of the high shelves laden with potions. A snap and it appears in front of her. "While you work up the nerve to ask whatever it is that brought you here, I shall put you to work. Organize these and label them - neatly, mind - by their ingredients. You do know how to read and write, yes?"
Her head bobs in a little nod and the spell holding her may as well have snapped, because she shifts in her seat, no longer doing an impression of a statue. There's the clink of bottles while Emet-Selch goes back to fighting math problems. A criminal misuse of his time, yet the one he must needs attend to as he does have the most experience with these even if he has not used this skill in a literal age. Eventually, there's a soft intake of breath.
"Gaia said that you... that after Hydaelyn, you took over your previous assignment once again." Clink, clink. Emet-Selch half-expects one of them to be dropped but none are, and so he returns to his own work, waiting for her to finish her thought. "She said your job was the management of the aetherial sea, and those who belonged to it. In it. Those...dead, or passed on, or otherwise gone."
"That is a...simple, if correct enough summation, aye." Emet-Selch turns just enough to squint at her over his shoulder. "So someone is dead?"
"No!" A pause. "Well - not...not exactly? It's just... Minfilia. The original Minfilia, from the Source."
Ah. He can see the shape of it now, at least. How interesting, that she would come to him instead of Viktor, who arguably knew the woman far better than Emet-Selch ever did. At least he can see the confusion - she is, of course, quite dead, but in the way that everyone from the past is quite dead. Shattered, reborn, twisted into something unrecognizable by time.
"Yes?" Emet-Selch drags the word out into a question, knowing the moment that he's going to turn back to his work, she's going to start talking again and so he sits in purgatory, the math sitting uncompleted, accusatory on the parchment.
"There is no way to...separate any of her that is left within me, from me, is there?" Once the inquiry is out, the floodgates open. No more clinking bottles, just Ryne speaking in a soft, furious rush after she sees Emet-Selch shake his head. No. What's done is done. Minfilia made her choice, the noble one, and Hydaelyn had not failed her in her final moments. Emet-Selch supposes She had to find success with one of them, though he'd rather it were Viktor. "If Thancred and Urianger are both in the aetherial sea- they are, aren't they?" Emet-Selch nods again, and she continues. "And they are safe there?"
"As safe as any of us are at any given moment, given the circumstances," Emet-Selch responds dryly. "But aye, safe enough."
"Then... I want to go down there." He hadn't known the Minfilia of the Source, but he had known the iterations of her here, the little songbirds kept in their cages, sacrifices to be led to the slaughter. He doesn't need to look at her to picture the stubborn set to her jaw, the tremulous line of her mouth. He'd seen reflections of it every time he visited to check on his pet project. "If you would allow it. Gaia said no one was allowed down there if they were not dead, but if you are in charge... if it is your realm, surely you could... You would be able to-"
Rather than let her keep going, Emet-Selch starts packing away the parchment to start picking at later, far more interested with whatever it is she is attempting to suggest.
"You wish to see them? An easy enough request to grant, though I think it best to at least attempt to dissuade you from this path. You cannot stay with them. They cannot return with you. We have managed to establish a very tentative equilibrium these past few moons, and as with all choices, there is intent behind them. Reason. Were we to make the journey to the Underworld, 'twould only be for a short period of time. The shards are for the living, the Underworld is for those who have passed, with few exceptions." Elidibus would return to the moon semi-frequently because Zodiark was there, but Emet-Selch could never bring himself to visit, not when the one and only time he had, so much time had passed that none of the ghosts wandering had recognized him. The only other time, was when he had faltered however slightly, and Elidibus had helped correct him. It was faintly irritating to think that the church mouse was far braver than he was, but he can at least disregard that, circling over to where she's frowning at the potion bottles, half-finished with her work. "Admittedly, I am curious why you would not broach this subject with the Warrior."
The expression that crosses her face - partially incredulous, partially a grimace, startles a snicker out of him.
"I do not think he likes to speak of...that idea. Of who we lost. How close they are even if they are far away. He would rather do the work to ensure we bring them home, instead of returning for a reminder of what we'd lost." Then, with far too much clarity and certainty, Ryne looks at him. "Gaia thought he was very similar to you, actually. She suggested I speak to you instead."
"Traitor," Emet-Selch sighs, with far too much amusement and not enough heat. "True enough. As to your original inquiry, if you worry about having any bit of the original Oracle left within you, you needn't. Your Mother, as one of Her last few acts, ferried the remnants of Minfilia's soul back to the Underworld, where it should be. She resides in the same area as your Thancred and Urianger."
The relief that seems to sweep through her surprises even Emet-Selch, who almost flinches back when she reaches toward him, grasping a gloved hand tightly, looking up at him with a smile to rival the sun. She certainly isn't Viktor's actual child, but their mannerisms - overwhelming, the both of them. "I am glad to hear it, truly. 'Tis where she would want to be. Where all of them would wish to be, if they are not able to be here with us now. I understand we cannot bring them with us, but I would still... I would still like to visit. If you would allow it. They should know the Warrior and I are well, and that you are helping us fix aught that has been broken. I think it would bring them comfort."
The laugh that escapes this time is a little too rough to be properly mocking; how the mighty have fallen, just a few months here in this place and all the soft spots he'd thought fully calcified reveal themselves. Irritating. "I think you may be giving your adopted fathers a touch too much grace with their feelings about me, but nevertheless. I must needs attend to work in the Underworld in a few days time as it is. To bring you with me would be a trifle - if-" Emet-Selch begins, louder, when her mouth opens. "If you can get the Warrior of Light to agree. He is, for all intents and purposes, your guardian for now. He need not accompany us, but 'twould be best if he were aware."
The hand clasping his tightens, Ryne nodding furiously. "Of course, I can speak to him. Or, at dinner, if he's too busy right now."
The odds of Viktor shooing her off and not making time for her are basically none, but Emet-Selch inclines his head, gently extricating his hand so he can pat her on the head, only somewhat condescendingly, not quite certain what the appropriate response here is. She beams at him, seemingly unconcerned with vaguely being treated like a pet. "Have a care when you do, hm? I would rather not deal with him being morose all evening if I can help it."
As if he thinks she has the ability to be anything but painstakingly kind. Wandering back to his seat, Emet-Selch hears the clink of bottles start back up, and the scratch of nib on parchment as she labels them as instructed. It's nearly a bell later when she seemingly finishes, stretching after standing up, handing him the leftover parchment.
"Gaia also said - she said your name wasn't Emet-Selch, that it was actually Hades, the way her name was Gaia," Ryne says, and Emet-Selch braces for a question even Viktor hasn't asked him yet, both of them hiding behind the faintly teasing Professor title. "And I thought about how... everyone called me Minfilia, because that was what they knew to call me, until I had a name, and how happy it made me when Thancred gave me a name."
"Are you getting at your point any time soon?" Emet-Selch asks, not able to shove enough impatience into his tone to be properly off-putting.
Like she knows she's struck a blow, Ryne gentles, and Emet-Selch's hackles rise further even if he's loath to admit it. "My point is... I didn't have to be Minfilia forever, and the people around me, who cared about me, were the ones who showed me that. I thought someone who cared about you should tell you the same thing. You do not have to be Emet-Selch forever." A pause, her hands smoothing down the fabric of her dress. "Hades is a nice name, if you do decide to use it. Or if you pick something else. That's all. Thank you for listening."
"Out, out, little church mouse," Emet-Selch sighs, warmer than he wants to acknowledge, despite how cool he's kept the room in protest of the misery of summer outside. "I shall let you know when next I intend to visit."
Ryne exits, and Emet-Selch remains sitting a little while longer before heading for the crate of potions, plucking one up to check her work. It is, unsurprisingly, done correctly, but each of the potions has little hearts or suns or other flourishes on the dots or commas, and he finds he is not as irritated by that as he should be, either.