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The Light’s new absence is both a blessing and a curse. Emet-Selch sighs, tilting his head back to watch the darkened sky, stars flickering across its surface, a delicate, glimmering spiderweb of celestial light. The scene rather reminds him of when he had gone to the Tower, that first night in a century, which was certainly the start of his recent spate of poor decisions. Allowing Raha to corner him so was the worst one, but this- playing along with the Warriors of Light as he is is nearly equal to it. They are not- themselves, are little more than fragments of souls clinging to empty personalities - and yet. And yet he looks into their eyes and he…
Intervening to save their little miqo’te ally had been a tactical decision; it had cemented him as an ally in their minds, if not in the minds of the Scions following them. Emet-Selch has little enough interest in getting their trust, when they are Sundered shades who matter little and less in the overall scheme of things. Yes, perhaps there had been a moment when he looked at their grieving expressions and had felt- torn, as though he were looking at Azem and Seleukos themselves, but he had made the choice to act without taking those emotions into account.
Informing them of the basics of their star’s ancient history was also a strategically sound choice, though he can admit he had taken some pleasure in shattering their opinions of Hydaelyn - watching the Scions’ faces shift through varying stages of horror and disbelief and fear and confusion had been the only thing gratifying enough to take the slightest bit of sting out of the memories his recounting had forced him to recall. Amaurot swallowed in flame…his people screaming in terror, their magicks turning against them…that terrible, shattering blow that destroyed everything he holds dear and yet somehow left him untouched.
He knows they had believed him, even if they hadn’t wanted to. Emet-Selch does not lie - and even if he did, there are things one cannot fake, and such bone-deep pain is one of them.
He sighs, tracing the darkness of the leaves against the night sky with his gaze. Light from distant fires flickers warm gold; the enchanted blue flowers that paint the viis’ paths through the jungle glow faintly, their luminous petals drawing patterns as far as the eye can see, like manmade constellations. Even amidst unending Light, they seek the sky. How…poetic.
The village of Fanow is celebrating, both the return of the night and the success in driving Eulmore’s forces away. Ran’jit is rather outmatched, though he has yet to realize it - Emet-Selch thinks he will enjoy watching Lelesu and Corrain take him to task. His loss will, in all honesty, do little to harm Emet-Selch’s current plan, and…he has enough contingencies to let this play out. Neither of Hydaelyn’s heroes have outright rejected him, meaning- shattered souls or not, there is a chance. Malformed creatures or not-
There is a chance.
But the village is celebrating, and he has no particular desire to join them, though the offer had been made by one viis who caught sight of him a short while ago. He has done his best to avoid the Scions since his earlier history lesson, not particularly interested in their hostility, or how it will be reshaped to fit these new revelations of his. Worse still would be their sympathy, which he has even less need of, when they cannot possibly truly understand the losses he has suffered. He has no desire to hear their trite attempts at pity combined with why they believe his losses do not justify his actions.
The sound of footsteps behind him thus comes as a surprise, and not an entirely welcome one, and he lets out a heavy sigh from where he has sprawled back in a chair, eyes still firmly on the heavens and hands tucked behind his head. “I have nothing to say to you and no interest in your pity or your suffocating morality,” he says shortly. He should have simply left and returned to the Crystarium to pester Raha as he briefly considered.
“I don’t think that’s true, actually,” a quiet voice says, and Emet-Selch mutters a curse under his breath and turns his head to regard the speaker. Lelesu is leaning back against Corrain’s hip, arms crossed over her chest, and she arches an eyebrow at him in an exact imitation of his own expression, which feels deeply targeted and also reminds him enough of Seleukos to briefly choke him. “...before today, even though I knew the star had been Sundered, I never thought that there might have been people there too, people whose civilization was entirely lost. Corrain and I would like to hear about your history in more detail, if you’re willing.”
Emet-Selch doesn’t try to hide his surprise at the request, looking between her and Corrain, whose too-familiar silver eyes glow in the low light, reflective. “...please tell us,” he says softly, ears flicking. “Who you are. Who they were.”
…he had asked Raha to remember his people, had he not? And if he is to convince the two of them to finally, finally see his side…well. “How can I deny such a heartfelt request?” he muses, gesturing with one hand for the two of them to sit. Corrain obediently drags an extra chair around to face him, dropping down into it, and Lelesu shrugs and climbs up to sit in his lap, the two of them adjusting so seamlessly and comfortably to the act that it’s clear they are quite used to it. Once again it reminds him of how in sync Azem and Seleukos had been, between their long-time familiarity with each other and their soulbond. When Emet-Selch looks closely at their souls even now, he can see the remnants of that tattered bond, tying them together, threads of their incorporeal aether mixed into a tapestry of blue and gold. A sky and a sun, Hythlodaeus had been fond of saying - and we the sunset they grace us with. He swallows slightly at the memory and blows out a long breath through his lips, considering.
Where to begin?
“...that which you know as my name is not truly my name,” Emet-Selch says after a moment, tapping his fingers against each other. “It is the title of my seat - my position on my people’s government, known as the Convocation of Fourteen. As Emet-Selch, the Third Seat, I am responsible for the aetherial sea, the souls of the dead, and overseeing death itself. No, I will not give you my true name, at least not at the moment; we are not on such intimate terms.” He lets out another breath, tipping his head back against the back of the chair. “By now you will have noticed a hierarchy among us Ascians, yes? A red mask marks us as a member of the Convocation and among our leadership, and has since time uncounted. The masks are one of the few aspects of our culture we have been able to retain in our exile.”
Lelesu tilts her head at him curiously, and Corrain leans his chin on top of her, a similar expression on his face. “Lahabrea told Igeyorhm what to do - they both had red masks. What’s up with that?”
“Like I am, Lahabrea was Unsundered,” Emet-Selch says calmly, and swallows down the instinct to snap at them for their constant slaying of his people. How few of them remain, and who else remembers the star as it ought to be? “When Hydaelyn’s blade struck, only three souls were spared - the two of us and Elidibus. Over the eons, we have sought out shards of those of the Convocation at the time of Amaurot’s fall - those who aided in Zodiark’s summoning, who best serve Him. With the aid of crystals containing their memories, we are able to reawaken their prior lives and uplift them to the Convocation, but they are still Sundered, and thus somewhat subordinate to us.” He pauses, then adds, wryly: “And Lahabrea and Igeyorhm were cousins, though she usually managed him in the days before.”
“...so that makes you one of the only survivors of your entire civilization,” Lelesu says quietly, and he nods once in confirmation. “I can’t imagine how difficult that must have been.”
“No,” he agrees, “you cannot. It is a loss greater than your feeble little minds can comprehend - and I don’t suggest you try. You bear duty enough as it is, is that not so, heroes?”
Corrain levels him with a steady look that reminds him far too much of Azem. “You don’t have to be so insulting, you know,” he says. “You said you don’t want pity - we’re not giving it to you. But we would like to know you and yours better.”
There’s no accusation in his voice; in fact, the deliberate neutrality of it would be impressive were they in a political meeting, though Emet-Selch very much doubts Corrain has inherited Azem’s tact. Still, he presses his lips together for a moment, more than slightly displeased at both the assumption and how quickly Corrain has…cut through some of his many masks. Though if the man thinks his insults aren’t meant, he will soon be disappointed.
“I rather think tact would serve you better than further combat training,” Emet-Selch drawls, and Lelesu- snorts, amusement clear on her round face. He likely should have expected that. And he is entirely unsurprised by the sour look Corrain shoots her, sulky and scrunched enough to make him look…young. “But I take your point. You do realize you’re asking rather vague questions, though, yes? This would be easier if you were more direct about what you wish to know…”
He gestures leadingly with one hand, and as if in response Lelesu glances up at Corrain, meeting his eyes for a minute. Some silent conversation passes between them that he is not privy to (once, perhaps, he would have been; he knew how to read Azem and Seleukos better than most. Now, of course, that is lost to time) before Lelesu nods and settles back against him, and Corrain looks back at Emet-Selch, something thoughtful in his silver gaze. “...what do you miss most?” he asks, and Emet-Selch- blinks. “Not…the fact that everyone you knew was alive, but- the little things. What are the good memories?”
He had expected…further questions about their masks, perhaps, or about the Ascians themselves - this would be a good time for them to interrogate him, as he has all-but volunteered. Instead they ask him…something both deeply personal and- strangely considerate of the loss, despite their inability to understand it. And it is a question he cannot exactly evade, especially not without insulting their genuine attempt to connect with him, an enemy. The thing he had asked them to do.
“...ah,” he murmurs, and lets his gaze flick away to stare out at the forest again, watching small, bioluminescent insects flicker in and out of view. “That is…a rather personal question.” Of course it is; they did say they wished to know him, as though they truly ever could without their memory. He sighs and- gives it due consideration. Unbidden, his mind strays to the picnic meals Azem often insisted on, especially when he had been ill for any length of time - he thinks of his recreation beneath the sea, where he retreats to when he has no need to be in this Light-soaked world. There are…many things he misses, many things that leave him agonized and bleeding - what are the good memories?
“...there was a park some distance down the street my home was on,” he says slowly. “A recreational space where children could play and adults could gather. In the spring, the fields were carpeted with flowers - they would spring up seemingly overnight alongside the rains, a kaleidoscope of color. I cared little for them, of course, but my family…was rather more sentimental. They would often drag us out for meals outside, or to simply watch the neighborhood children…” Emet-Selch shakes his head slightly, blinking away a scene he can no longer recall the particulars of, despite how cherished it is, of the three people he loves most laughing among a brilliance he has not seen since the Sundering. Seleukos had loved it when Hythlodaeus wove flowers into their hair. “I have found, also, an inability on the Sundered’s behalf to create music like ours, though I suppose it has been long enough now I hardly recall the criteria.”
Lelesu’s voice is soft when she speaks. “Do you remember what colors you liked best? Of the flowers.”
“...aye, though not for any particularly floral reason,” he says. He ought to drag himself back to some sort of normalcy, but- their souls swim in his view, colors he has longed to see again for so long the yearning has become a part of him. He loved them for so short a time. And then he lost them, and lost everything, and he has lived thousands of years in this pit of loneliness in the hopes that he will see his home restored just once before he finally returns to the star.
They were all so young.
“...because the family you mentioned liked them, then?” Corrain asks, and when Emet-Selch forces himself to focus again, the young man has his head tipped consideringly to one side, both his ears focused forward. Well. The interest is- he did want it. If only it weren’t so…
“...to some extent, yes,” he sighs, tucking his hands behind his head again. “Though I rarely appreciate seeing them. I have no need of constant reminders of the most personal of my griefs.”
“I understand that,” says Lelesu, and this time he does raise an eyebrow near-mockingly. “Reminders of grief making it feel even more overwhelming, I mean. Corrain and I, we lost someone very important to us a couple years ago, and there was a time when I hated seeing anything that reminded me of him because it hurt so badly, and I was already struggling under the weight of it. But eventually I realized…when I saw those things, I could either think only of the pain of his death, or I could remember the joy of his life, because the pain only exists because of the love that was there. And it’s better to remember and celebrate that love than to hide it away to avoid the hurt, and in so doing deny the happiness they brought you.”
Emet-Selch stiffens, a sharp retort on his tongue - do not presume to know me or my pain - but before he can speak it, Corrain murmurs, “Pretty words don’t salve a burn, Lelesu.”
“Nothing salves the burn if you don’t put the effort in,” Lelesu says back, then sighs, slumping. “...all I mean to say is- I think your family would like it. If you stopped to look at the flowers that reminded you of them. I know…I know I would, if it was me someone was mourning.”
Emet-Selch sucks in a breath through his teeth and closes his eyes, hands clenching tightly around each other. Of course she would not have meant her words to strike home as they have, there is no way she could have, but- there are times when she speaks and he can nearly hear Seleukos instead. Would they have said the same, their eyes soft? Of course not. They had planned- they had sworn an oath, an oath summarily broken by everyone but him-
“Do not presume to act as though you know me or the ones I grieve,” Emet-Selch says, short and clipped, and does not look at either of them. “I have offered you my services as an ally in the hopes that we may reach an agreement, yes. That does not mean you know anything of me except that which I have allowed you to see.”
For a moment neither of them speak. Emet-Selch does not look away from the distant flowers, waiting for them to either leave or redirect the conversation, and finally Corrain says, “Will you tell us about them, then? The people you miss?”
He considers the question a moment, letting himself slowly settle - they had not meant to upset him, he knows, and he supposes he can…let the moment pass, considering who they are. Or who they were. But can he bear to speak of those he lost? Of Azem, whose name he is no longer allowed, of Seleukos, who had never quite chosen him, of Hythlodaeus, who believed his abstract sacrifice meant more than what Emet-Selch needed from him. To even think of them aches; to speak of them to these simulacra of them?
…but there are others he can speak of, in vague, he supposes.
“My people were a kind people,” he says slowly, letting out a breath. “We believed in the principle of enlightened creation - in being excellent stewards, our lives lived in service to our star. My immortality is not an anomaly, you should understand; it is the natural state of an Unsundered soul. With such brilliant souls we lived our lives to the fullest, laying them down only when we believed our purpose fulfilled, an act widely regarded as joyful.” He shakes his head. “Education was among the foremost priorities of my people. I suppose the easiest way to impress our dedication to the star, and each other, upon you is this: when the Final Days had swallowed the star, half our number willingly gave their lives in sacrifice, that we might bring Zodiark forth and save them. Could you say the same of your society?”
“...you seem to have a hard time telling us of the past without using it as a tool to lecture us,” Lelesu notes, and Emet-Selch shoots her a narrow look, unimpressed. She doesn’t seem fazed. “I’d still like to learn more - about your lives, so that someone can help you remember them - but I do have a question first, not related to that. If you don’t mind.” He does mind - if he is to be interrogated he would prefer to have tea - but he inclines his head anyway, and she nods. “Are you, and the other Ascians, tempered?”
Corrain ducks his head, though not enough to hide the way his ears snap flat against his skull. Emet-Selch wonders, almost idly, if Raha is watching them through that magic mirror of his - he supposes he’ll find out when he returns to the Crystarium. He has, after all, intended to tell the man the truth of Hydaelyn for some time; now that Her Chosen know, there will be no harm in it. Perhaps it may even…
“Of course I am,” he says. “We thirteen who participated in the summoning ritual…Zodiark is a primal, and primals temper. He could not help Himself. Of course, we did not imbue Him with the evangelical fervor your own people are filled with, and thus our tempering is not that slavish dedication you think of when you hear the word. But yes - my aether was corrupted towards Darkness from the moment His summoning was completed, and when I severed the tie to my physical form, that corruption was complete. Does that bother you?”
“Yes,” she says, the word sharp as a blade. “Corrain and I have killed multiple Ascians, and stood against others, and- of course it bothers me that I might have killed people who weren’t acting under their own will.”
“Be careful, hero,” Emet-Selch muses, flicking his fingers absently in her direction. “My conviction is absolute, and I do not take kindly to it being questioned.”
Lelesu frowns stubbornly, a too-familiar look, but Corrain cuts her off with a hand on her shoulder, though his own face has darkened, furrows in his brow and a hardness to his eyes. “Lele. You can’t convince a tempered person their will is not their own,” he says, and she sighs and slumps into his chest, clearly unhappy. Then he shifts his gaze to Emet-Selch, and though he seems mostly neutral, his tail flips back and forth against the legs of the chair, heavy. “Is that not true of the other primals? If Zodiark was indeed the first and most powerful- you’d be no different. The only way for there to be definitive proof would be to devise a cure, administer it, and see if your will changed, even slightly.”
“And there is no cure for tempering,” Lelesu murmurs, eyes downcast. Emet-Selch rolls his own, tilting back in his chair.
“Do you mean to imply I do not know the difference between the summonings we facilitate and the one we performed?” he drawls. “Creation magicks, that innate skill our people were born with as a result of our density of soul, required encyclopedic knowledge of that which we wished to create and aether; the former could be replaced with intent and will, but it made the process far more unreliable. When we adapted summoning to be taught to mortal mankind, we used crystals as a supplement for the aether you do not possess, and fervent faith could be made to replace knowledge. Once we discovered the mechanism of tempering, we further incorporated it into our teachings, as it aided our plans…Zodiark, however, was not conceived in such a way. He was created, using the energy of the willing sacrifice of half our star, and the knowledge of our foremost minds, Lahabrea among them.”
“All the more reason to say we don’t know if He had an effect on you- and more to the point, it can only be proved one way or the other by assuming its presence and trying to remove it,” Corrain says, shrugging. “We cannot remove what is not there, no?”
“And here I thought you came to me to learn, not to preach to me your assumptions,” Emet-Selch hums, and stands in a single fluid motion. “Go enjoy your celebration, Warriors of Darkness…and if you truly wish to know of my home and my people, seek me out when you return to the Crystarium. In the meantime, I am tired, and as you continue to conspire to keep me from my rest, I believe you owe me this respite.”
He doesn’t give either of them a chance to respond, simply offering them a loose, limp-wristed wave and walking directly into a portal - though he is tempted to teleport directly to the Crystarium, he instead steps free amid the lavender forests of Lakeland, whose colors have always reminded him of his long-lost home. He needs a moment alone before he finds rest with others.
Is he tempered? Yes. Does it make a difference? Of course not. His dedication to his people, his duty, his ideals would never be so shaky as to fail should he lose his connection to Zodiark. And his grief…it aches, all the more poignant for the way Corrain’s and Lelesu’s questions had ripped off the bandage, so to speak. For the way he had looked into the eyes of those he loved most and seen no recognition, no remembrance of the memories he’d softly spoken of. Does Corrain even realize what Emet-Selch had given him?
Seleukos would be horrified to know that they could forget Hythlodaeus so easily. That they would not even feel an empty space where his presence should be. Azem would…
Azem had thrown their oath in his face and stormed away, and Emet-Selch no longer knows what he would think. That does not change the pain of it.
Soon he will return to the city and pester Raha, and discover if the man was in fact listening in on their conversation. For now…for now he looks at the moonlight as it falls through purple leaves, and he wonders. They are not the same, and he does not appreciate the way Lelesu, especially, spoke to him as if she is an authority on the subject of grief, but perhaps they are similar enough to salve over his regrets.
There is little he would not do, little he would not give, if that was the case.
Are you, and the other Ascians, tempered?
Of course I am. We thirteen who participated in the summoning ritual…Zodiark is a primal, and primals temper. He could not help Himself.
Of course I am.
He lets the polished shimmer of that familiar face fade into the blue of crystal, lets the scrying magicks waste away into nothing. He blinks. There’s- a hollow space, in the cavity of his crystal chest where a heart used to beat. A yawning hollow, of realization and despair in one.
He had, perhaps, always hoped that the century of companionship could sway the course of an Ascian. A vain hope- maybe. A fool’s futile wish- of course. But to alter the will of a tempered Ascian? Tempering, he could not fight. None ever had, not successfully. Not without death. And no matter what he said, or did, or how much he could be to Emet-selch- he would never outweigh Zodiark’s call. No matter how much he- how much he cared for-
There would be no outcome of his victory in which Emet-selch survived.
(His own death had always been part of the plan. But….he had hoped to spare Emet that finality.)
He blinks at blue crystal. He blinks at blue crystal. He blinks at-
There’s a void in his head too, now.
And slowly, he sinks to the floor, light as air and heavy as stone.
Raha.
He blinks at blue crystal. It shimmers. There’s no familiar face- only the shape of carved fingers and filigree gold veins in cracks. A hand. His own. His own, once, now puppeted on long strings near to fraying.
There’s soft thuds from- outside. Faraway. Dark boots on blue crystal, then dark fabric rustling as a man crouches down beside him. He blinks- shakes himself but faintly. Everything is still far away. Even the Tower’s heart is muffled.
Gloved fingers slide beneath his line of sight- cup his chin. Gently tilt up. He blinks at- not a mirror. A familiar face. Sour-sweet and careworn. He tries to take a breath- his lungs are crystal. They do not remember how. He does. He puppets them.
Gold gaze stares. He squints at it. Tries to shake himself again. The puppet strings draw taut, tense, tiny threads snapping- but winching him back. His tongue is numb behind sharp teeth.
“....Hades,” he manages. His villain stares down at him, brow lined with worry.
“...come,” he says, more gently and less pointed than is his usual wont. G’raha blinks up at him. He is not the visage from the mirror. Of course I am . He yet breathes. “I think I am not the only one in need of tea.”
G’raha lets Emet-selch lift him from his slumped seat on the floor. His knees knock- legs disjointed. The puppet threads here are loose- he tries to pull them tighter. Hades adds his support to the shaky puppet show, carrying some of the weight that frayed string struggles to bear. G’raha is guided to his own lounge- and guided to sit.
He sits.
He stares at blue crystal, and it is- closer.
Hades returns. There is tea. How it is so hot so fast- he doesn’t know. He knows. There’s a void in his crystal chest, in his head. Time is lost there. There’s a gloved hand on his again. The living one. The heat of a ceramic cup, fresh on tingling nerves, frayed strings still alive within flesh. He blinks. Hades doesn’t speak with words- gently pushes his own hand and the teacup to his mouth. G’raha sips. He can do that.
His face scrunches. The voids…diminish. Speckles of presence creeping back into yawning caverns of numbness.
“...Sweet.”
He blinks at warm reddish tea. Too sweet. Hades’s sweet tea. And sips again. No matter what he said or did- Zodiark-
…And yet, they both clung to fools’ hope.
Emet-selch hums an unfamiliar tune, tapping gently in time with the melody on the top of G’raha’s knee, on the red and white and black robes. The fraying strings are all taut now, and finding their way back into limbs of flesh and crystal alike. Puppeteer becomes puppet becomes pilot becomes person. The Tower’s heartbeat is still steady, beneath the thrum of his own.
He has an empty cup of too sweet tea, in one hand. Shakily, he pours himself another.
There is comfort, in sweetness.
“...Thank you.”
Emet-selch puts a careful arm around his shoulders. And G’raha leans on him, still a touch within his own head, still a touch disconnected from his own body.
“...we can speak of it in the morning, hm?” Hades murmurs. G’raha looks up at him, at the dark shadows in his hair and beneath tired eyes.
Are you, and the other Ascians, tempered?
Of course I am.
“...aye. In the morning.”