Chapter Text
“A beautiful display, wouldn’t you agree?”
Hades shifts slightly to allow the newcomer some room beside him, but doesn’t look away from the festively-decorated tree against the wall. “A touch gaudy, perhaps, but it does catch the eye.”
Count Edmont lets free a bark of laughter. “Gaudy! The entire season is gaudy - from the decor, to the food, to the wrapping on the packages! We ourselves may as well have been minted and decked in sparkles!” He gestures to himself, indicating the heavily-brocaded jacket he’d worn to dinner. “If I stuck myself in an alcove I daresay the children would hang baubles from me.”
“Do not tempt me,” Hades says dryly. “I am sure the decor has never had to dance between protocol and politics with children underfoot.”
“Ah, yes.” The Count turns to the foyer door; a multitude of voices buzzes on the other side, adults and youngsters alike. They can just barely hear a sliver of holiday music over it all, though the quartet has been playing steadily all evening. “It can be quite overwhelming for an outsider such as yourself.”
He bites his tongue. He has been to all number of parties and festivities, has played host and guest to a multitude of persons - of varying political importance - throughout his lifetimes on the Source and its Shards. The Count, however, knows him only as the Warrior of Light’s plus-one - a guest, by her decree, and what a strange guest he is in this frigid land these Elezen call home. It does not help that the season is particularly cold; just days earlier he’d been hard at work in Amh Araeng, frying himself beneath that ball of fire they call a sun. The radical change in weather has not suited him well.
He realizes with a start that the silence has begun to drag; if there is a single person he has been ordered to impress it is the one standing mere feet away. “You were host to the Warrior of Light, I’ve been told?”
“It was, and ever shall be, one of the highest honours to fall upon my house. In truth she has become more a daughter than a ward - you can only imagine how the trouble with Garlemald has added new grey hairs to my head.”
Unnerved first by the word daughter, and then again by the mention of the empire he helped create, Hades buys himself time by sipping on the glass of champagne he’d plucked off a serving tray. Oh, yes, he definitely wants to tread carefully around this Elezen. “And your sons? They have taken to her as well?”
“Hmm.” The Count takes his own turn sipping champagne, a move that immediately sets Hades’s nerves on end. “One might say they have.”
“Might?”
“I suppose you would say they are fond of her - in their own ways.”
He clamps his teeth together. This conversational quicksand promises to end badly - either when he shakes the truth out of the noble Count, or when he learns more than he wants to.
She never did tell him who her “lord Elezen” had been…
“Ah, but here we have the esteemed Lord Commander!” Count Edmont turns as a richly armoured man enters the foyer. “Join us, please!”
Hades takes another sip of champagne, eyeing the new arrival over the rim of his glass. The two Elezen conduct their customary greetings as he examines, deduces, extrapolates -
He offers his hand with a smile full of teeth, secretly pleased as the newcomer’s startlingly bright blue eyes dance between his third eye and his lock of white hair. “A pleasure.”
“This is Lord Commander Aymeric,” the Count announces, one hand on the younger man’s armoured shoulder. “I don’t believe you two have had chance to meet?”
“I have not been so lucky,” the commander says in a voice like rich velvet. His handshake is firm, with a pause at the end that Hades wants to interpret as a challenge. “Hades, was it? Arriving with our notable Warrior of Light?”
“You have the right of it,” he says, feeling a flicker of amusement at the mistrust in this young warrior’s eyes. He no longer takes it personally; dealing with the Scions on the daily has dulled him to all sorts of bad manners. “Alas, she has not told me anything of you.”
The Commander’s blue eyes narrow to slivers, but any retort he wished to make is forestalled as the foyer doors are flung wide. Hades winces as the noise from the ballroom invades his quiet space, as voices and laughter and singing wash over him and persist. Loudest of all are three singers near the doors: two more dark-haired Elezen and his very own Warrior of Light, arms around each others’ waists as they belt out the chorus of a popular holiday tune. The two Elezen he recognizes as the Count’s sons, looking in much better spirits than they’d been at dinner, but his eyes are captured by the Warrior between them. Her cheeks are flushed red with laughter and somewhere, somehow, she’d found a tall green hat to pair with her dark green gown. She looks the picture of holiday cheer, and he -
He suddenly feels festive.
“If you would?” He hands his glass of champagne to the flummoxed Lord Commander, ignoring the man’s confused protests as he joins the crowd in the ballroom. He watches the Warrior of Light’s eyes brighten when she sees him, watches the Elezen on either side of her stiffen in alarm, but as he pulls her free from their arms and into his own he has eyes only for her. He kisses her, earning himself her laughter.
“I wondered where you’d taken yourself to!” She wraps her arms around his neck, seemingly oblivious to the crowd of aggravated men staring at them. “Finally ready to join the party?”
“I found myself inspired,” he says, moving them further into the ballroom. He lowers his voice as they settle into a clear space. “I think our secret is out, hero.”
Amusement dances in her dark eyes. “Did you ruffle the Count’s feathers?”
“And the Lord Commander’s.”
“Oh, gods.” She laughs and lets him lead the dance, allows him to waltz her around the room. As they pass the foyer door he spots the Count and his sons, staring wide-eyed at them both. He offers them a cheery wave before twirling her away, back through the crowds.
Mayhap he will enjoy this celebration after all.
*
Breakfast the next morning is a small, muted affair. Half the hosts and guests are still abed, either taking the time to enjoy a late sleep or nursing well-earned hangovers. The Warrior of Light happens to be in the former category, having been kept awake late into the night by Hades’s own ministrations.
He, however, has taken to mornings with a surprising energy. Before she came to Norvrandt he rarely glimpsed a sunrise - he barely knew the meaning of the word - and after their clash above Amaurot he found himself taking joy in simple things, easy things, little moments he had somehow forgotten.
Breakfast happens to be one of them, and so he finds himself taking a seat at the long dining table. It is mostly deserted; fewer than half-a-dozen Elezen sit scattered along the sides, with generous gaps between each. One or two hold their heads gingerly, no doubt wishing they were still abed, while the others are already tucking in to the massive variety of pastries, fruits, and meats spread across the table. Hades happily takes a seat by himself, loads his plate full of everything he can reach, and digs in to a wonderfully quiet meal.
He is almost done - repurposing his bread into a sort of sponge to soak the last of the syrup on his plate - when a lanky frame slides into the seat next to him. A glance upwards and he meets the gaze of one of the Count’s sons - the elder, he believes - and there is no warmth in those narrow eyes.
Ah, well. He was unlikely to make any friends with his display the night before - nor with his demand to be reassigned to share the Warrior’s bedroom.
“Lord Hades,” the Elezen says, his voice low enough to not carry far down the table.
“Count Artoirel,” he replies, remembering the proper title and name before he speaks. “A pleasure to have you join me. Have you tried the brioche?”
“I have,” the newly-appointed Count replies cooly. “A delight, to be sure.”
“My compliments to your chef - and to you and your father, of course. This has been a most enjoyable celebration.”
“High praise, especially from one not familiar with our customs.” The man’s chilly voice shows no sign of thawing. “I hope you do not mind my forwardness, but when we were introduced they made no mention of your homeland.”
This answer has been scripted for him, but it is a part he is eager to play. He gestures to his forehead, to the obvious third eye above his brows. “We thought it apparent, sir - I am a son of Garlemald.” Son - father - founder - all and none, not anymore. “No longer associated with them, of course - I have been working with the Scions for some time now.”
“Are the Scions not locked in slumber?”
He waves the last of his bread at the Count. “Ah, not all! Mistresses Krile and Tataru have kept operations running like a well-oiled machine.” He pops the syrupy bread into his mouth and licks his fingers clean. “A little well-placed oil may assist with all manner of difficulties, wouldn’t you agree?”
The smallest hint of pink colours Count Artoirel’s cheeks. Hades turns aside, quickly masking his smile.
Found him.
“We are eternally grateful to both Mistress Krile and Mistress Tataru,” the Elezen says, his cultured voice suddenly stilted, as though forced through gritted teeth. “If I may ask, how did they come upon one such as yourself?”
“Ah, twas the Warrior of Light who came upon me,” Hades replies. His face is a mask of politeness, of innocence, but his play on words turns the Count’s pink cheeks red. “I had long been yearning to turn my coat, so to speak, and she provided the opening I desired.” He reaches past the Elezen to grab a bunch of grapes from a nearby bowl; he pops them into his mouth one at a time, watching the poor man spiral through his emotions.
Thinly-masked bad manners are no match for millennia of dancing around these games.
“I wish you both much joy,” the Count says finally. “It is clear you - you inspire her to happiness.”
*
His hands around her throat -
Her knees bashing against his -
Light pulsing through her -
A word shouted, gasped, garbled -
And yet -
*
“I owe her that and more,” Hades says, finding his voice. “Much, much more.”
When he meets the Count’s eyes he finds them narrowed, a calculating look spread across the handsome face. “I hope your first Starlight Celebration proves enjoyable. She deserves every gift you can find her.”
Hades keeps his expression passive. “Thank you, my lord. She does indeed.”
“We will speak later. A blessed morning to you, Sir Hades.” Count Artoirel rises, provides a perfunctory bow, and leaves without another word. It is not quite to standard - not quite what is demanded - but Hades’s mind is already caught on more important concerns.
Gifts? Does she expect gifts?
*
“It is customary.”
Hades tilts his head, his lips pressed together to prevent himself saying anything he might regret. The Warrior of Light is still abed, though she has propped herself up with a multitude of pillows, wrapped her hands around an old book, and summoned a mug of something steaming to her bedside. She looks the picture of comfort and he does not dare disturb her, except -
“It is customary for everyone else,” he says, wrapping his hands around the bedposts at the foot of the bed. “Are we partaking in this custom?”
She turns a page in her book without looking up. “Of course.”
“Of -” He counts to ten silently and tries again. “You bought me a gift?”
Her dark eyes flash to him and back to the page. “That is the custom of the season, yes.”
A gift - what kind of gift? What could she possibly have chosen? There is nothing he needs, nothing he asked for, nothing he wants save her -
But if she has a gift for him, he must have a gift for her.
He cannot ask. It is too obvious, too embarrassing - why did he not think ahead? Why did he assume they would attend the celebrations and not give each other anything?
Why hadn’t anyone warned him?
“We’re heading back to the First this evening,” she says as he turns to leave. He stops and looks over his shoulder, but she merely flips another page. “G’raha Tia says the Crystarium has a version of the Starlight Celebration, so we will join them for the week.”
A week with the Scions. A week in the shadow of Syrcus Tower. A week spent with lips sealed and eyes downcast, pretending he doesn’t notice her companions’ disapproval.
A week to find a gift worthy of her.
Teeth bared in a silent snarl, he leaves her behind to make a desperate attempt in Ishgard’s markets.
*
The Crystarium has transformed since they went through the portal a few days earlier. Greenery decorates every flat surface; baubles and deep red flowers dangle from the glass panels high overhead; evergreen trees wrapped in velvet ribbons and strings of beads stand sentinel on every corner; wreaths and bells hang from every lamppost. The usual music has been replaced by the festive carols Hades had heard repeatedly in Ishgard.
“Two separate worlds,” he complains, his arms wrapped around a tower of packages. “Two completely different worlds without a single easy means of connection, yet here they are playing a song we danced to just yesterday.”
“G’raha Tia said that’s his fault.” The Warrior of Light isn’t truly paying him attention; she leans over the wares at a nearby stall, no doubt eager to add to the mass of gifts in Hades’s arms. “You cannot blame him for being homesick, can you? His first Starlight Celebration brought so much joy to the First he said he couldn’t help turning it into an annual tradition.” She holds up a pair of earrings, jingling them against the light, before returning them to the table. “I don’t believe it’s spread far from here, however. Eulmore doesn’t recognize it as a holiday.”
“Lucky Eulmore,” Hades says under his breath, though he watches her make her way through the jewelry table. “Do any of those catch your eye?”
She straightens and shakes her head, turning from the seller with a small, encouraging smile. “I can craft better,” she says quietly, so low the eager craftsman can’t overhear.
“Ah.” Therein lies the root of his problem: what does one purchase someone who can craft anything she needs? She either has the best of everything or can make better than he can buy. Weapons, armor, jewelry, even decor for her distant home on the Source - anything he would give her pales to what she can make with her own hands.
“Let’s drop these off in the Pendants,” she says, eyes roaming over the boxes in his arms. “G’raha Tia wished to meet with you before dinner - we wouldn’t want you to be late.”
“Oh, no,” he murmurs, falling into step behind her. “We would not want that.”
*
He stands in the Ocular with his arms crossed, watching the Exarch fiddle with a piece of machinery. Some bitter thoughts still linger - Allag was his, after all, and this tower was a piece of his own aether - but he has slowly forced himself to accept Syrcus Tower no longer belongs to him. At one point he’d offered his services to the Exarch, thinking he could teach the man a thing or two about the inner workings of the tower, but G’raha Tia had declined. He knew everything he needed to, he’d explained, and more besides.
Hades doesn’t want to be the kind of soul that holds onto grudges - not anymore - but something about this Miqo’te sets his teeth on edge. Whether it is the power he holds over Hades’s own life and freedom, or the relationship he has forged with the Warrior of Light, he manages to irk Hades simply with his existence.
“My apologies,” the Exarch says, finally leaving the machine behind and turning to face him. It is still disorienting to see two red eyes staring at him, still strange to know the face beneath the cowl. “I had hoped that would be an easier repair than it seems.”
“We cannot fix everything,” Hades says with a shrug.
“But that does not mean we should not try.”
The optimism - the continual cheeriness and drive to do good - might be what annoys Hades the most. How can he possibly be so put off by good cheer?
“I have an odd request for you,” G’raha Tia says. “I realize you have been out in the Empty for the past few weeks, but we have a small need of your power here in the Crystarium: the outer shield was damaged in the sin eater attack on Lakeland. While I could have my craftsmen examine it…”
“I would be much faster,” Hades finishes for him. Simple. Trivial. Boring. “Point me in the direction of the command consoles and I’ll take a look.” He turns on his heel, eager to be out of view of those disapproving crimson eyes, but an idea stops him. He turns back to the Exarch, watching the man watch him. “Might you spare me a moment for a question of my own?”
The Exarch has ever been a noble man. Whether he detests the sight of the Ascian in front of him or not, he has no reason to say no. “Certainly.”
Feeling at once foolish and naive, he shoves his hands in his trouser pockets and stares at the wall some few feet away. “If you were to give the Warrior of Light a gift, what would it be?”
The Miqo’te’s ears flatten against his skull. “A gift.”
“A Starlight gift.”
“While that is certainly a noble idea, I don’t believe I am the one you should be asking.”
Hades grinds his teeth and stands his ground. “I have no one else to ask.”
“Ah.” It is the Exarch’s turn to cross his arms over his chest. “In that case - while I think it a surprisingly well-intentioned idea, there is an issue I should bring to your attention: our people are already planning to bestow upon her many gifts. I am sure you understand how important it is for them to feel they have a connection with their Warrior of Darkness - even a small gift, opened by her own hands, is enough to brighten our citizens’ hearts.” He cocks his head to one side. “I would not want to detract from that surprise, you understand, or to overshadow it.”
Hades does understand. “Regardless, I am still inclined to give her something more personal.”
“Then I believe others are better-suited to answer your question.” The Exarch turns away, back to his machine, and Hades barely catches his next words. “The Scions will be returning to the Crystarium over the next few days. Seek them out - they should have some few ideas.”
*
He finds Alphinaud first. The young Elezen is the picture of protocol: whatever his true feelings towards Hades, he has never shown anything save polite - if cool - respect.
“New equipment? New weapons? More tomestones, perhaps?” The boy rests his hands on his hips, watching a flurry of culinarians carry crates of ingredients past them. “Does she like scarves?”
Scarves?
Hades keeps his face respectfully blank. “I appreciate the suggestion.”
*
Lahabrea’s puppet sits on a low ledge near Syrcus Tower, seemingly daydreaming until he notices Hades’s approach. Hades watches the man pull his gun from his holster and decides to stop quite some distance away. At least they are in a deserted corner of the Exedra: if Thancred shoots him no one need see the mess when the bullet ricochets.
“Let you off your leash, did she?” The Hyur opens the chamber and starts counting cartridges, his eyes firmly on his weapon.
“I have been on my best behaviour.”
Thancred snorts in disbelief. “You lick her boots like a good boy?”
Hades’s patience snaps. “No, but I do kiss her ass, and that makes her so much happier.”
The man’s furious brown eyes latch onto his. “Piss off.”
“Happy to do so - as soon as I ask my question.”
“Ask it!”
“Were you to give the Warrior of Light a gift -”
“I would give her common sense and taste in men,” Thancred growls, snapping the chamber shut as he stands. “Get out of my sight, Ascian.”
Hades clicks his tongue in disapproval, but abandons his attempt to aggravate the man. It had been a fool’s hope from the start, but he is at a point of desperation where aid from any source is welcome.
With any luck the next arrivals will prove fruitful.
*
Y’shtola and Urianger arrive the next day; he gives them time to settle in before he goes looking for them.
It is easier for him to blend in among the citizens of the Crystarium now. One of the demands the Exarch had placed upon him had been a change of wardrobe, which the Warrior of Light had whole-heartedly agreed with. Hades had no particular attachment to his robes of state - they tended to drag at him, to weigh heavy regardless of the hour of the day - and had quickly found himself supplied with basic trousers and shirts. It is a blessing, really, to find himself in anything without a skirt.
Now he finds himself greeted warmly by the traders and salespeople of the city, welcomed as one of the Warrior of Darkness’s eccentric band of friends. It is strange to be so touched by those he once regarded as worthless; this, he finds, has been the change which humbles him most.
He discovers the two Scions in the Wandering Stairs, sitting at a table near the railing. Y’shtola sits with a view to the Musica Universalis, her arms on the banister as she watches the people below. Urianger has covered their table with his cards, placing them in patterns Hades does not understand. Fortune telling has never been a magic he has ascribed much truth to, and as such has never made a point of learning.
“I had hoped your path led past us,” the Miqo’te says as he stops at their table. She doesn’t turn to look at him; her long nails tap repeatedly against the metal wine goblet in her hands, the pattern indiscernible and immediately irritating.
“I will not trouble you long,” Hades says. He pauses before asking his questions, watching the Elezen shake his head over his most recent card. “Not the best outlook, I take it?”
“Thy humour does thee little credit,” the Elezen replies cooly as he gathers up his pile of cards and shuffles them.
“Why not draw a card for me?” Bait, yes, but he can’t resist indulging his curiosity.
“Nine of Swords,” Y’shtola predicts, letting her wine goblet dangle from the tips of her fingers. “Or the Hanged Man.”
Urianger clearly dislikes both implications, but he assents to Hades’s spur-of-the-moment request and draws a card. Confusion furrows his brow as he drops it on the table. “The Fool?”
“Truly?” Y’shtola spins in her chair, nearly spilling her wine in her haste. “Not reversed?”
“Nay,” the Elezen replies, settling back into his chair with an air of disappointment. He pushes the lone card across the table, as though he has forgotten that his companion can’t see it regardless of how close it is. “Tis passing strange.”
Hades looks back and forth between the two, somewhat bewildered by this unintelligible exchange. “Thank you for the confusing entertainment, but I did have a purpose in seeking out your company today.”
Y’shtola drops her elbows on the table as she brings her drink to her lips, her milky grey eyes meeting his. “Speak it.”
“I am in need of a gift idea for the Warrior of Light.”
Urianger immediately covers his eyes with one hand, while the Miqo’te tilts her head to one side. Her tail snaps back and forth, belying her calm expression.
“A Starlight gift?” She taps the side of her jaw with one knuckle, dropping her blind gaze to the Fool lying on the table. “Interesting.”
Hades looks back to the Elezen, but he has reached for his teacup and seems content to sip it with eyes closed. The silence stretches long enough for awkwardness to set in; he fights the urge to turn on his heel and consider the entire venture a lost cause.
“Have you tried nipple clamps?”
Urianger spits his tea across the table, covering the surface and his cards in a fine mist. Y’shtola hardly seems bothered as she reaches around to thump him on the back, her unnerving gaze never leaving Hades.
It isn’t that he’s blushing, exactly, but to hear such words from her - to learn she is aware such things exist and that the Warrior of Light may be capable of using them - is new territory Hades isn’t quite sure he wants to wander through. “I - yes. Yes, we have.”
She shrugs, ignoring Urianger’s groan of disgust. “Ah, well. I shall be sure to inform you should anything else come to mind.”
He thanks them both for their time and makes his way - slowly, sedately, not rushing in the least - back to the Pendants. Though that had not gone the way he’d hoped - he would have to let the Warrior of Light know why her favourite astrologian might blush upon seeing her - he has a sneaking suspicion Y’shtola’s opinion of him has changed. Whatever the Fool might mean, it managed to thaw some of the ice between them.
It isn’t the progress he’d hoped for, but it manages to be encouraging nonetheless.
*
The last of the Scions come to him.
He had decided not to seek out Alisaie and Ryne. His bad luck with the others notwithstanding, Alisaie’s opinion of him leans heavily towards outright hatred, of the Thancred variety; any conversation with her involves more arguing than is ever necessary. Ryne, strangely enough, seems the most likely to forgive him, though that only serves to unnerve him in other ways. Her unflinching optimism and heavy focus on doing good repeatedly reminds him that, despite the company she keeps, she is still but a child. Turning to her for any kind of advice feels at once ludicrous and, ultimately, inappropriate.
Hades finds himself a seat in the Wandering Stairs, picking a table near the back where he is less likely to be disturbed. He had spent the morning fixing the Crystarium’s shield - it had been, as he’d predicted, mind-numbingly boring - and finally he has a moment to watch his Warrior at work. She’d been recruited to assist with the final decorations for the Starlight Celebration; he finds it deliciously ironic that she is in charge of placing candles on the trees. Who better to bring light to the far reaches of the Crystarium?
He sees Alisaie first, stalking towards him with a determined, intensely-focused look. Ryne catches up to her a few seconds later, looking scattered and confused as they make their way past the bar to Hades’s lonely table.
Without time to prepare, he can only stare at them blankly as they stop a few feet away. Belatedly he gestures to the chairs; Alisaie looks at him as though he has sprouted horns.
“The Exarch said you want to talk with us,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest and resting back on one heel. She juts her chin upwards, narrowing her eyes to glare down at him. “Why?”
He spreads his open hands to either side of himself in a gesture of peace; her expression does not change. “I asked the same question of every Scion - a gift idea for the Warrior of Light.”
Her blue eyes spark with anger. “This world and its people desperately need saving, and you are here wasting my time with frivolity.” She makes a noise of disgust and turns on her heel without a second look behind her.
“Sometimes people want frivolity,” Ryne says quietly, watching her friend depart with a sad look. She turns her gaze to him; though he cannot help feeling off-balance upon finding himself alone with this child, he is grateful she, at least, sees the necessity in celebration. “I have been told all of the Crystarium will present gifts to our Warrior. Will you not do the same?”
“I would have mine be more personal,” he explains gently.
She tilts her head to one side. “Y’shtola told me that you and the Warrior knew each other long ago, but she lost her memories.” It is an overly-simplified version of their tale, but he understands why the Miqo’te would have explained it so. At his nod, she continues, “You should make new ones.”
“Make - make what, sorry?”
“Memories. The Warrior has things - clothing, armor, jewelry; paintings, mementos, little things to lose in her house - but if she doesn’t remember something, you should make a new memory with her to place it.” Ryne hesitates as her certainty wavers. “I would say something that isn’t related to the war - or the Empty, or sin eaters, or anything like that. Happy memories.”
“Happy memories…” He bows his head. What would be a happy memory? What could he give her that might replace all she had lost? He absent-mindedly waves goodbye as Ryne takes her leave, his attention already drawn into the question in front of him.
What memory does he treasure most?