Chapter Text
“Wasn’t the First originally Mitron and Loghrif’s assignment?”
“As I am forced to say, time and time again,” Hades groused, “if you want something done right…”
“… You invite your friend along to watch you do it yourself.” Hythlodaeus covered his laugh with his hand. It became harder to cover it all as Hades scowled at him. “Honestly, Hades. Admit it - you just like showing off that when it comes down to it, you do it best. It's not a bad thing to be proud!”
“There’s nothing impressive about picking up a subordinate’s slack.” But by the uptick in his left shoulder and crinkle to his eyes, Hades had no true complaint.
Hythlodaeus hummed, neither assenting nor dissenting. True to his word and Hades’ undoubted intent, he then sat back and watched Emet-Selch clean up the Light-flooded mess. It was nice to see him wholly focused on something new and not snow-covered or oil-and-blood-stained.
Despite his appreciation for a Hades at work, Hythlodaeus’ attention soon drifted to the thick aetherial barrier at the edge of their area’s desert. His eyes caught upon a darkened speck against the barren waste beyond. At once, he felt himself caught, briefly but intensely.
As time would have it, that was when Hades declared his work sufficient for now and they were again ready to depart.
He then paused, squinted at Hythlodaeus, and tilted his head to follow his gaze with one eye.
Although he knew Hades saw it too, he knew they’d be there all century if he wasn’t the one to give word to what they witnessed. Thus he said, “Looks like a shred of Mitron is still out there.”
Hades grunted, unimpressed and uninterested. He turned his eyes away.
Hythlodaeus continued, voice adrift as he imagined himself in Mitron’s position, stuck without body or understanding in a wasteland of his own making. Without Loghrif. Worse, knowing that it was because of his own actions that he was without Loghrif.
“Gods, imagine the anguish. The confusion.”
“I’m certain he blames me for his folly.” Hades grumbled. “The last two times I gave him the opportunity to take his rightful place, he learned enough only to know himself without his better half and how to make that, somehow, to be my problem… As if I personally could chase every scrap of soul in and out of the Underworld…”
Hythlodaeus hummed.
“… Well?” Hades prompted, ere long. “Is there something you’d like to say about it?”
Alone. Powerless. Helpless.
Such anguish. Such confusion.
Mitron’s situation was, Hythlodaeus thought, both Hades’ and his fault, even though he hadn’t known Mitron and Loghrif had encountered any strife during their mission on the First. It was nonetheless Hades’ fault because he had directed Mitron into it. It was Hythlodaeus’s fault because what Hades did, Hythlodaeus owned, too.
“Not particularly.” He paused. Hades folded his arms. He continued, clearing his throat. “It’s a shame, is all. I do so wish you would help him.”
“Don’t lie to me, Hythlodaeus,” Hades murmured, sounding no little bit hurt.
The sound made Hythlodaeus smile at him on reflex, if only to try to make him do the same.
It half-way worked. In a blink, Hades’ scowl flattened into neutral displeasure.
Thus placated, Hythlodaeus let up on the smile, then sighed, shrugged, and shook his head with pity for Mitron’s poor plight. That was all he could afford to spare for the soul, powerless as it was.
“If you want something done right,” Hythlodaeus echoed, tone again adrift as his eyes left the lonely soul-speck, “I suppose you must indeed do it yourself.”
“As I’d said before,” Hades agreed, stiff.
He made no move to ease Mitron’s situation.
If even he couldn’t be bothered, then he needn’t be pre-emptively uptight about it. It wasn’t as if Hythlodaeus was about to order him to help. Honestly, he was always so quick to get his robes in a bunch! Hythlodaeus didn’t understand where he mustered up the energy to care as much as he did.
“In any case, work thus done,” Hythlodaeus gave an exaggerated bow and gesture as he made a teleportation portal appear, ignoring as Hades muttered about how he hadn’t lifted a single finger to help him with said work, “shall we return to our beautifully broken star? All this Light is making my eyes ache.”
x x x
“Am I seeing what I think I’m seeing? I daresay you like him.”
“I daresay that you are once more speaking gibberish.”
“Playing coy at your age isn’t very attractive, Hades.”
“Neither is speaking nonsense at yours, Hythlodaeus.”
Hades most always welcomed Hythlodaeus’s chuckle - especially one rumbling low and true next to his ear, full of honest warmth. This moment in time, however, was an unhappy exception.
The reason for displeasure was, as usual, a sundered soul.
The blue-green soul belonged to an involuntarily elected Exarch that thought if he wore a robe with its hood pulled up, none would know him to be miqo’te. Or, no, not miqo’te, but mystel, as the inhabitants of the doomed First Shard insisted on calling them.
“The fact you are bothering to recall the distinction tells me all I need to know,” Hythlodaeus teased him when he muttered about such differences, amusement both genuine and utterly misplaced.
“You know as well as I that Tower belongs on our Star,” Hades reminded him, as he seemed to need the reminder that there was good reason for his eyes to stray after the Exarch, “and that the same goes for the individual with an eight-times rejoined soul - a fact you provided to me, mind.”
“Did I?” Hythlodaeus tsked. “I’d simply thought you noticed, with how fiercely you stared after him. Now I know your attention strayed for another, far more compelling reason--”
“What can be more compelling than a soul evidencing a successful eighth rejoining when such a thing is quite impossible at our current point in time--" Hades rebuffed, speaking over Hythlodaeus’ unending nonsense.
Hythlodaeus pretended not to notice, and continued speaking as well. “And what’s more, you think he’s clever-- when you deigned to finally speak with him and inquire after said Tower, and he danced away from your questions so effortlessly, your face did that thing where it scrunched at the top and you weren’t able to stop your little smirking smile in time--”
“If any know how he or the Tower came to be here, out of time, it would be the individual in charge of said Tower --”
“But of course you just had to ruin it by introducing yourself as the most eminent Emet-Selch, ascian extraordinaire--”
“-- What else would you have had me introduce myself as? A living fossil?” Hades grumbled, at last giving up on out-talking Hythlodaeus. The fiend never stopped.
“We are living fossils! It’s most accurate.” Hythlodaeus grinned, open and honest. “So, yes. That would have been acceptable. Anything but ascian, tempered servant of the great Lord Zodiark.”
Years had it been since Hades saw such a sight, he couldn’t help but stare.
Hythlodaeus stared back, undaunted.
Alone together as they were, they hadn’t their masks on. It was a nice sight.
“… It was a look rather close to that one,” Hythlodaeus murmured, abruptly far quieter than he had been.
Distracted from his train of thought and unsure what rails Hythlodaeus’ own ran upon, Hades made a questioning noise.
“The look you gave the Exarch,” he clarified, “was close to the look you just gave me now,” and laughed again as Hades immediately scowled.
x x x
Later, while awaiting the others to join them on the rocky surface of their Lord’s prison to make all necessary status reports, Hades turned and emphasized to Hythlodaeus, “I will handle our operations on the First. After Mitron and Loghrif’s missteps, further mistakes cannot be suffered.”
Hythlodaeus tossed an arm across Hades’ shoulders, his vibrant eyes alight with that earlier amusement. “I leave it all to you, my favorite conqueror. Do not tarry on my account. If you happen to tarry for anyone else, however, I believe there is not one among us who could point a finger without a shred of shame.”
“I’ve nothing to tarry over, dear,” Hades cautioned him, voice aloft with dismissive malice.
“Certainly.” He squeezed Hades’ shoulder, then leaned in and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. Their masks clicked together. It was such a modern gesture. “If you scowl any longer, Hades, your face is liable to be stuck. Worse yet, the others will ask what we were discussing that made you so unhappy, and I’d hate to lie to them.”
“They needn’t ask to know my strife, with you standing plainly at my side.” Also, Hythlodaeus hadn’t taken issue with lying to the others in centuries.
Hythlodaeus hummed and gave him another peck upon the cheek, their masks again clicking. Hades pushed him away with a nudge of his hip, then carefully straightened his mask and robes. Hythlodaeus did not follow his example. His grin could have cut Zodiark’s accursed chains.
Not long after, Elidibus and Lahabrea arrived. Whatever Elidibus noticed between the two of them, he made no mention of. Most likely, he did not believe any differences to matter enough to note - or, even more likely, he did not recall a time where the two of them behaved unlike they did at that moment. On the other side of their makeshift meeting space, Lahabrea treated them with the utmost suspicion throughout the meeting, his temper quick to flare over the tiniest imagined slights. Considering how he had begun to see shadows where none could possibly fall, the hostility meant everything and nothing at the same time.
Neither objected to his proposal for the First. Neither commented that Hythlodaeus offered no help in any substantive matter, but rather spent their rare meeting to expound on the beauty of Lakeland’s purple. Both evidently recalled enough to know that where Hades went, Hythlodaeus would follow -- and that where Hades wasn’t, Hythlodaeus cared little for.
That perhaps said more about Hades and Hythlodaeus’ habits than Elidibus and Lahabrea’s.
But if Elidibus and Lahabrea refused to pay him the courtesy of self-reflection, then he would allow himself a taste of the same. Long had it been established that neither he nor hell or high water would have success in motivating Hythlodaeus to put more effort into their cause.
Some days, it felt a blessing that he didn’t actively sabotage them.
Hythlodaeus had claimed Hades was being dramatic to ever say so, but then he went and disagreed with nearly every plan Hades put forward regarding the Rejoining. It was only when he was allowed complete reign over his approach that he truly put his back into the task, and then often with mixed results. He took his successes the same way he took his failures: a shrug, aimless half-smile, and request that they move to the next civilization.
He also did not take criticism well. He barely tolerated it from Hades, and outright left mid-discussion from the others.
“If you insist on being so nit-picky,” Hythlodaeus had finally told him, in a rare moment of honest frustration, “then how about this: we alternate assignments. I’ll follow your direction without question for yours. You will afford me the same respect.”
“Fine,” Hades had spat, livid to a degree he couldn’t recall reaching since their overwhelming failure with the Thirteenth Shard. “If we must proceed so hobbled from each other’s insights, why even attend each other’s assignments?”
“Hades, please,” Hythlodaeus said, his beautiful, bright eyes wide and hurt. “Where else would we go?”
He’d been so angry. He’d barely been able to speak.
Hythlodaeus, fortunately, knew him. He waited.
Finally, Hades managed to bite out: “We will not improve without review from our peers.”
“I will provide you a review, then,” Hythlodaeus responded after a long, horrible silence. “And you may provide me the same. But not until after we have accomplished our assignments.”
“Fine,” Hades had said, relieved beyond any further words.
Elidibus knew Emet-Selch, but not Hades. Lahabrea barely recalled how to build. The ascended were children, unable to improve far.
When Hythlodaeus wrapped his arms around him and pulled him in tight, he’d closed his eyes and let his frustration and relief and desperate need to be understood wash over him. Neither of them left with dry faces that day.
It hadn’t been the first or last time, but it had been embarrassing. Fortunately, Hythlodaeus knew not to bring it up.
In any case, alternating jobs worked well enough. Every year, they scratched and crawled ilm by painful ilm closer to reviving their Lord.
Until, that was, the First and her champions came, and their careful balance tipped into a new madness.
x x x
Long before the madness, there was:
“Have you transformed your fingers into icicles? Remove them from there, please!”
“Of course, Hades.”
“Thank you-- Hythlodaeus!”
“Hm?” asked the individual who had just taken his icy claws and stuck them farther up Hades’ defenseless torso. “Come now, you know me; a request like that was all but asking for a suitable reprisal.”
“Honestly,” Hades growled, shivering in his newly awarded goosebumps, “nothing but time and you’ve decided to grow into an insufferable child.”
Stifling a chuckle with much difficulty and little success, Hythlodaeus set his chin upon Hades’ sternum and grinned up at him. “That isn’t what you were calling me just a moment ago.”
“A moment ago feels like an eternity away,” groused his very dramatic friend. “A moment ago, you were putting your hands to better use.”
“If they’re cold now, that hardly seems like my fault. Perhaps you shouldn’t have left them alone on the bed.”
Hades directed a scowl down at his very good friend.
“I’m not going to hold your hand.”
A moment later, he had his head tilted back and his left fingers laced with Hythlodaeus’ right.
If Hythlodaeus hadn’t had his mouth so occupied, he would’ve pointed it out.
x x x
Before the madness, there was:
“No dragon with half a brain would be fooled by your ridiculous little guise.”
“I think I’m quite fetching!”
“You’re pink.”
“First, you’re color-blind, it’s lavender. Secondly, plenty of dragons are pink.” Hythlodaeus reared to his hind legs and slow-stepped himself into a twirl. “Look! I’ve a tail. Isn’t that quaint? I could get used to this form.”
“You look absurd,” said Hades, who was ever a fun-squasher.
Dropping back onto all fours, Hythlodaeus - with just a tinsy bit of difficulty that absolutely no one other than Hades and an actual dragon would notice - stretched his wings. He then not-so-accidentally clipped Hades on the back of the head as he brought them back to his sides.
While Hades rubbed at his head (as he was also ever the dramatic one), “I look convincing to Elezen eyes,” Hythlodaeus tossed his newly spiked and scaled head back with pride, “and those are the only ones I’m concerned with at the moment. If you weren’t so opposed to my good sense, you’d turn yourself into an Elezen and we could enact this plan together. It would be poetic - history repeating itself for the better! After all, wasn’t there once a dragon and Elezen that ushered in peace through their unbreakable union? We could inspire similar songs for the generations to come.”
“Even were I willing to debase myself for your amusement,” Hades grouched, “there is no plan for us here. Our present duty takes us to Sharlayan. They’ve nothing to do with the draconic horde.”
“Of course you want to bury yourself in those dusty libraries. I still don’t understand why you’re so perturbed over them untangling aetheryte travel.”
“I don’t want anything to do with their persumptuous academies, but I won’t suffer them getting ideas about where aetherytes might take them. Neither Dalamud nor Lord Zodiark need unexpected visitors. When I’d said as much, you had concurred.”
“I did,” Hythlodaeus allowed, catching the truly caustic edge to Hades’ voice, “but now I want to try this. Please, Hades, bear with me a bit longer. Sharlayan isn’t due to go anywhere.”
“The strife between Ishgard and dragon has no bearing on our work,” Hades repeated for the thousand thousandth time. “If anything, it will be useful. Of the beasts crawling about our Star, the dragons are more formidable than most.”
“Please, Hades.”
That usually did the trick. Yet, Hades had either steeled himself to his tricks (unlikely) or felt truly passionate about his stance (unfortunately). He insisted, “Having them occupied with a fruitless war does us nothing but good.”
“I’m going to convince them out of it,” Hythlodaeus said, again raising to his hind legs. Hades craned his neck back to continue looking him in the eyes. He did not take a step back. “I’m going to show the Elezen that not all dragons are evil incarnate. At the least, I’ll sow the seeds of the idea.”
Without even the slightest pause, Hades shook his head.
“You’ll do no such thing.”
“You’ll stop me?” Hythlodaeus asked, dropping back to all four legs and almost - almost - laughing. The sound like gnashing stones might have been his new throat gearing up for it, actually.
“I won’t,” Hades said, tone low and frustrated in the way it always got when he was being brutally honest, “but they will.”
Hythlodaeus frowned and took a small, slight pause.
Hades continues with, “As it is with all species long-lived but short-sighted, the dragons hold grudges. Even were you to break them of their rightful rage, the Ishgardians have known only massacres to result from engagements with those bearing tooth and claw.”
Tail twitching in irritation, Hythlodaeus cut in, “Despite your misgivings on my coloration, I did do my research before taking this form. I know what I’m flying into.”
“Then you know this plan is doomed.”
“I don’t, actually, and neither do you.”
“They won’t give up their mindless bloodshed so easily. You know this; you’ve seen this sort of senseless conflict as much as I have.”
“Then— after our string of successes, I’m happy for the challenge.”
They stared each other down.
Hythlodaeus waited him out, tail slowly swishing behind him.
True to expectation, Hades turned away first. Dismissive. Accepting defeat in the only way he ever did: with absolute bitterness.
But before Hythlodaeus could celebrate his win, Hades said the unexpected.
He said, “On your heart so be it.”
He then disappeared into a swirling portal, teleporting yalms away to hide out in a thick crop of firs atop a mountain ridge. Sulking. His shining soul remained in plain view for Hythlodaeus’ eyes, however, so he couldn’t be that mad.
… And again, Hythlodaeus took pause.
The dragons and Ishgard really had no bearing on their ultimate duty. Diverting their mutually assured destruction wouldn’t stall a Rejoining. There was no reason to help, but neither was there a reason to keep apart. Chained as Hades and he were to their cause, the idea of meddling in something so inconsequential felt supremely vital. Especially because it would bring an end to senseless suffering.
It was something Azem would have done without hesitation.
Hythlodaeus plucked the sliver of trepidation from his soul, shook out his wings, and took flight. Even before speaking with Hades, he’d decided on the Ishgardians that he’d plea aid from. It was a sparsely populated outpost, as it overlooked a narrow canyon of little worth to any side. It hadn’t had draconic visitors for months; it hadn’t seen battle even longer. The Ishgardians there would be poorly armed and poorly trained, and seek to avoid conflict wherever possible. He’d land on its outskirts, feign despair, and seek help from the Elezen for eggs trapped in a cave too small for his claws. Following that little adventure, he couldn’t foresee building rapport being too difficult. And after that, he and his new friends would work to convince the nearby town that they likewise had nothing to fear.
Peace was surely as much a plague as war, and would catch on in no time.
Hades next found him while he was feigning death outside a small, eggless cave.
He cracked open an eye when he heard a portal’s unmistakable whisper. Thin though the light was right outside the cave, it struck him like the lance that had pierced through his right lung. The blood beneath him had congealed into a cold puddle. He noticed how it stuck to Hades’ boot. A disgraceful sight.
“They hoped to take me by surprise,” he confessed, projecting his thoughts rather than repairing his slashed throat and punctured chest. “Waited until I had my back turned. In truth, they were fairly obvious about their plan. I suppose they thought they had no other choice.”
“They knew a dragon your size would not die alone,” was Hades’ dry, quiet observation.
He closed his eye again. “They were so scared… Not one among them even knew how to hold their lance correctly. It didn’t seem right to punish them for their ignorance.”
“Even though they were in the midst of killing you?”
“Yes, yes. It makes no sense. You’ve my full permission to go ahead and rub it in. You definitely told me so.”
“You’re right, thank you. I absolutely did tell you so.” Fabric rustled. A gloved hand traced just below his eye, then cupped underneath his muzzle. Every breath hurt, the body’s time on the mortal plane well spent, but Hythlodaeus forced his soul to remain in the ruined body. The unwavering pain, Hades’ horrible kindness - he wanted to feel it all. So rarely these days did he find himself in such a mood, and he wished to hold it as long as possible. “Because of your errant hope, we’ll be behind schedule in Sharlayan. The Studium operates on a seasonal calendar; we’ve certainly missed the first day’s session.”
“My diligent Hades. Never one to shirk from his duty.” A gurgling laugh spilled from his leaden body. “Yes, fine. I’ve had my fill of these lands. Let us be on our merry way to your amateur academics.”
Hades swept his hand down Hythlodaeus’ neck. Although he had never particularly enjoyed learning or using healing magics, he was nonetheless proficient when pressed to be. With his touch, his torn throat reknit itself. As it did, his body’s valiant heart began beating anew.
“No need to now act with such haste. After all, since we’re already late for the first session, we may as well wait for the next season.”
From a practical standpoint, that made no sense at all. The illogical nature was jarring enough that Hythlodaeus almost - almost! - questioned it. That he didn’t immediately grasp Hades’ meaning told him just how much the dying body affected his thinking, and how much he needed to be back in his usual, healthy form.
Not waiting for a response, Hades stood, and went to pull the broken spears from his chest. In this, he acted with little kindness; he did not numb the area or use magics to dissolve the offensive sticks. He simply set his boot against Hythlodaeus’ bloated side, grabbed the lance, and pulled. The tips’ barbs dragged against the soft flesh and caught on his hardened scales.
Following his body’s returning reflexes, Hythlodaeus let out a hissing groan.
He again cracked open an eye. Even with his red mask on, he could see that Hades looked down at him with an expression that understood, and that–
Again, Hythlodaeus closed his eye.
“I wouldn’t say no to a little break,” he admitted, voice intentionally light. “I can’t just work and work and work like you can. I’m not built for that kind of consistency.”
The broken spears clattered against the stone as Hades tossed them aside. Fabric rustled again as he crouched next to Hythlodaeus. Gentle hands raised his head and placed it on a warm lap. He found an instinct buried in his body’s genes to voice his appreciation, and let it rumble from his renewed throat.
Hades rewarded him with a huff that wasn’t entirely displeased. After an almost comfortable silence wherein he healed and Hythlodaeus lived, he said, “For the record, red is a terrible color for you.”
“Red and pink, they’re natural enemies,” he agreed, keeping his senses narrowed to the careful caress along his jaw and Hades’ steady presence.
x x x
In the madness, there was:
“I’m not a fan of masks.”
“Since when.”
“Since… – what does the exact time matter?”
“It matters since you’ve never had trouble with them before.” Hades propped himself up on his elbows, staring down at Hythlodaeus as if he’d never seen him before. Hythlodaeus found the perplexed expression a mite insulting; after all this time, he was allowed to change his mind. “Is this because I brought up that you would do well to take a seat? It’s merely fact. You are singularly the most qualified individual for any open Convocation job– of which there are currently many.”
“Any Convocation job, you say.” Hythlodaeus echoed, tracing a finger in an aimless circle on Hades’ bare chest. “Even Mitron’s?”
“Yes, obviously. Your disinterest in aquatic life does not translate to incompetency.”
“I’d disagree, but that lively debate aside, I’d consider all seats presently occupied.”
“They’re all half-occupied, at most. The kin we raise stand above the mire, yes, but they fall short of a true Paragon.”
“That isn’t what you implied to Fandaniel.”
“You’ll have to be more specific. I’ve told Fandaniel many things over many lives.”
“Hm. That’s true.”
Growing bored of the conversation, Hythlodaeus shifted up Hades’ body and nosed into his neck. Ever obliging in this singular regard, Hades tipped his head to the side. Taking advantage of the better access, Hythlodaeus kissed an appreciated path from his clavicle to his jaw, then nipped at his ear. Hades’ shiver ran through them both; Hythlodaeus’ heart rate responded in kind, ticking up a beat that turned breathing into a shaky affair.
As he set his palms to Hades’ shoulders, pressing him down into the bed of some forgettable tavern in a dusty city that paved its streets with copper coin and iron blood, Hades fell with ease. When he rolled his hips with intent, legs spread without pause.
For a time, they focused on breathing. On being.
Yet, as madness demanded:
“My point is,” he said, voice as thin as his composure, “you needn’t keep the white.”
“I like the white,” he replied, and sat back. Before Hades could grumble at the loss of heat too long, he took hold of his hips and pulled him closer. To the leg that hooked over his shoulder, he pressed another kiss atop a pale knee. The other hugged close to his side, its toes curled with unsung pleasure.
Hades gazed up at him, eyes oh so true.
“You’ve just decided that you don’t like masks, then.” He sounded more skeptical than his position should have allowed him to be.
“I don’t know.” It wasn’t the masks. “Something should change. On the outside.”
“We’ve changed plenty.”
“You’ve gotten prettier, sure,” Hythlodaeus said, smiling.
Face flushing, bright eyes lowered, Hades prodded him in the side with his knee.
“Hush, and get on with it.”
He had insisted they prepare themselves the modern way, with messy oil and slow, excruciating burn. It paid off, watching his eyelashes flutter as he took himself in hand, lined up to an already sensitive hole, and pushed in. He did not stop til he had nowhere left to go.
Breathing and being. They could manage that.
“I miss what those masks once meant,” Hythlodaeus told him, or Hades told Hythlodaeus. “Our community. Our place in it. A simple understanding.”
“Now they herald ruin,” they both agreed. “But what can be done about that? It’s the world that has changed. Not us.”
“We’ve changed so much, even I can’t recognize what lurks behind the mask,” he said, his forehead pressed to his neck, his teeth set to his skin and his soul melting into his brittle bones. “Am I still me? Or am I just you in another body?”
“No,” he breathed, but could not be, “no, that’s impossible, because I don’t know if you are you, either, or just me, and if either of us ceased to be–”
“Hush,” he gripped tight to what he had left, gave himself in entirety, their edges blurred and their souls burnt, “please, don’t,” and like that, they had no choice but to exist.
x x x
In madness, there was: all they had left.
x x x
Far above an ancient, dying world, the blinding Light of four wardens flashed past the bowed head of a hated enemy.
The enemy snapped his head up as the force crashed and cleaved a nearby rock in two. Continuing through the broken debris, the energy shattered the illusionary world’s boundaries. The sky cracked under it, a jagged hole revealing the re-created Amaurot. To Ryne, the Light had looked like an axe.
The apocalyptic scene reluctantly retreated into the Tempest’s ocean floor as it faded into sparkling aether. Even as the empty cityscape returned, their alarm grew.
“My, my,” said a new Ascian, his mask white as the shades’, but with silver-grey filigree. Hitherto unseen, his arrival was sudden. “That was certainly impressive! Had you been caught in it, Emet-Selch, it absolutely would have carried you directly into your precious Underworld.”
“Who…?” asked the Exarch, hanging on to consciousness through sheer force of will and remaining upright through the same plus the assistance of his staff.
“Another?!” Hissed Thancred, who had managed just about the same level of stubborn lucidity.
Ryne, not far behind him, shared the spike of anxiety.
With one hand, the new Ascian had the Warrior of Darkness’ arm twisted behind her.
In his other, a faint white orb struggled feebly against silver claws. He had the orb pinched between two fingers. Although it was difficult to tell behind the mask, he seemed to gaze down at the orb with utmost curiosity. As for the Scions scattered and staring before him, he had no regard.
“Release me!” snarled their Warrior. “Who are you?!”
From a split lip trickled red, while the rest of her exposed skin boasted the promising red of bruises and scrapes and aetherial burns. All rewards from her fight with Emet-Selch. It was, Ryne thought, a testament to her strength that she stood at all. Certainly, Emet-Selch did not: he had been brought low by the battle, collapsed forward onto his knees, his once-again Garlean form crumbled and shaking.
When the new Ascian’s head shifted and their gazes met, Emet-Selch’s eyes narrowed.
“You must have noticed,“ the new-comer said, voice light but with an– edge. It was playful, except for how it wasn’t.
Arms visibly on the edge of collapse, Emet-Selch grit out his reply between clenched teeth.
“Hythlodaeus…”
The Ascian shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry, Emet-Selch. I already know what you’re going to say, and to it, I must insist: no, nope, no longer, thank you very much, but it’s now my turn!” He swung himself around with a giddy flare, his smile wide and teeth bright. “We’ve tried it your way, my good friend. I would call your near-actual destruction a certified failure.”
The Scions tensed.
His turn, when they were already near-destroyed themselves… Ryne wasn’t sure if the others had knowledge regarding a white-masked Ascian, but even though she definitely didn’t, he didn’t have the bearing of an individual easily defeated. With no element of surprise, the twins unconscious and the rest of them either gravely wounded or horribly exhausted, she wasn’t sure how they would pull off another fight.
Gathering her courage and hoping beyond hope that this one might listen to reason, she pushed herself, slow and unsteady, to her feet.
As she did, she saw Hythlodaeus’ attention shift back to the faint orb in his grip. He gave the Warrior a shake, causing her to stumble forward. As she tried to jerk backwards, in one fluid motion, he shoved the orb directly into her back.
The Exarch shouted a protest and attempted to stand himself. From farther back, Y’shtola cut short a shocked gasp.
While Ryne didn’t understand what she’d witnessed, she saw how the Warrior’s eyes widened and her breath caught in her chest like she’d been punched in the stomach.
In light of all that, Ryne pleaded with Hythlodaeus: “We– we don’t have to fight. I don’t know who you are, but— you could take Emet-Selch, and go.”
“Hm? … Fight?” His attention lingered on the Warrior, his voice distracted. “Oh, no. That’s far too messy. Personally, I’d hate to fight.”
Ryne blinked.
She asked, naive and hopeful and probably idiotic, feeling small and powerless, “Really?”
“Absolutely. Fighting! Horrible business, fighting.” He tsked. “No, no, we shan’t be fighting. I’d never. Emet-Selch can carry that burden on his lonesome. – What is your name, young one?”
“Honestly, Hythlodaeus,” Emet-Selch snarled. “You’re going to make me wish they’d ended me.”
“Don’t answer him,” Thancred said, sharp.
“It’s Ryne,” she said, her chin held high and her gaze steady on Hythlodaeus.
Hythlodaeus turned his smile on her. When he released the Warrior’s arm, she again stumbled, but did not fall. A measure of strength had returned to her.
“Ryne.” He smiled through her name, too. His smile never wavered. “It doesn’t seem that you much like to fight, either. Would you be willing to hear me out?”
“... Yes,” she decided. “Yes, I would. As long as you truly mean what you say.”
He nodded, by all appearances sincere. “I usually do.”
“That will have to do, I suppose,” she said, awkwardly.
“It will,” he agreed, and smiled wider.
Unsure, she fell silent.
Adrenaline fading, the side which Emet-Selch had struck with an aetherial bolt began to throb in earnest. She pressed a hand to it without thought, hoping to keep the pain at bay while the two of them– talked. Or negotiated. The conversation felt more important than it seemed.
His head tipped down as his attention followed her hand. Almost as if realizing where he was for the first time, he then looked around: to Thancred, yet prone behind her; to Urianger and Y’shtola, who were heading cautiously toward the Warrior, who looked lost in her own mind; to the Exarch, fierce and bloodied and determined, and the twins, farther back, badly wounded from their attempt to halt Emet-Selch. She watched Hythlodaeus take all of them in, and watched too how his smile remained, but dimmed.
“But before we speak,” he said, stepping back as Y’shtola and Urianger drew closer – stepping, Ryne noticed, in front of the defeated Emet-Selch – “how about we go somewhere more comfortable? Beings like you aren’t meant for the ocean’s depths. Leave that to the fish and the monsters.”
Emet-Selch scoffed. Then choked, turned his head, and spat red.
The corner of Hythlodaeus’ mouth twitched. It was as close to a frown as he’d come since he arrived, and it hadn’t even twitched downward.
“Alright,” she agreed, not fully understanding who this Hythlodaeus was, but knowing that this was something like a real chance.
x x x
Golden eyes, bloodshot and hazy, cracked open. A pale hand curled weakly around an older, stronger one. His lips parted, his words slow and slurred.
He said, “Father…”
His father said, “Hush, Lunus. You sound terrible.”
“The medici say I’m dying. I think I deserve to sound a little under the weather.”
He chuckled, then coughed, then wheezed. His father mopped the red from the corner of his mouth with a soft cloth.
“The medici have told you no such thing,” said his father.
“Father, please,” he groaned, and did his best to roll his eyes without succumbing to the resulting vertigo. “They say it with their eyes… And the medications… They grow more foul by the day. If I weren’t dying, I think I might start, if only to escape those horrid concoctions once and for all.”
“I’m so sorry the life-saving medications aren’t to your standards,” his father huffed. Lunus smiled. His father never missed a chance to complain. He was happy that hadn’t changed, even with his obvious distress over his looming sickness. “I’ll be sure to let the medicus know that you’d prefer a slice of lemon on the side of your elixirs.”
“That would be ideal, thank you.”
“To even demand such a thing! I’ve spoiled you rotten.”
“You have,” he agreed easily, smiling wider– then coughed, and wheezed, and again spat up red. His father helped him sit up, and held him upright so that he might better expel the liquid. Despite this, he drowned with every breath, his lungs filled with nothing but blood.
After his latest fit finished, his father eased him back to his bed. Sinking gratefully into the plush pillows, he did his best to ignore how cold he felt despite the heaviest furs and blankets upon him.
He was dying. He knew it, though the medici refused to tell him directly, just as he knew that the reason they kept quiet around him was by his father’s insistence that he not be stressed more with the news. Certainly, his wife knew him well enough to understand that he’d prefer to know what was killing him, and exactly how fast it was set to do so.
The imagined ignorance was for his father’s sake far more than his. Even as he wished to fight the inevitable forever, he felt his determination waning. When his wife visited, she reported developments from the war room. She assured him the Empire would be safe in his brother’s hands until Varis grew old enough to rule. She didn’t hide the fact that Varis would need to challenge his uncle to take control of the throne, but she made sure he knew that she would do everything she could to prepare Varis for that day.
They would be fine. The Empire would grow. Garlemald would outlast him, and her people would be better for it.
His father did not like hearing such things. His father despised the war room and discussions of inheritance – he thought them both pointless when there were machina to build, fields to conquer, and a first-born son to sit upon the throne.
This is not your fault, Father, Lunus tried to say, but could not find the breath to form such words. Another weight had sat itself upon his chest, and he could do nothing but struggle underneath it. Do not fret so. I wish I had perished on the other end of a sword, for at least it would have been swift, but we mortals are mere beggars when it comes to such things.
Then, suddenly, a voice other than his Father’s spoke. “It doesn’t need to be this way.”
Lunus tried to look toward the new presence, but found his vision too hazy to focus. His coughing must have covered the other’s arrival. All he saw was a black robed blur in the corner. It was not a garb he recognized, but it was a voice he knew.
He asked, “Uncle?” and, “You crazy old goat. You made it after all.”
Except the words were as whispers, and the only one to hear was his father, who sat right at his side. His father squeezed his hand, letting him know he heard. His overworked heart appreciated the sentiment. His father had always been like that – ever harsh in word, but kind in gesture to the rare few he believed deserving of his full attention.
His uncle, Simus, was one such individual. Said uncle had once a constant presence in Lunus’ life before he decided to forsake his duty and travel the world on a whim (or so his father had said, derisive and dismissive, when Lunus had once inquired after his uncle’s increasing absence). No matter how others snickered and disparaged his uncle’s name behind closed doors, always did his father open the palace doors to welcome him home. Acutely aware his uncle was likely to outlive his eternally exhausted and stressed father, Lunus had intended to continue the practice. His wife wasn’t as convinced of his worth, but Varis adored his great-uncle, and so she’d likely honor his wishes for as long as her and their son’s reputation could handle it.
The idea that Simus would change his ways was too absurd to contemplate.
His father said, his tone low as he spoke directly to his brother, “It always ends like this. Your feigned surprise exhausts me.”
“In this case, it needn’t be,” his uncle insisted. “We have the ability to help him.”
Lunus was sure he’d missed something, for surely they didn’t mean him. There was no cure in all of Garlemald and all her colonies for what plagued him. Not at the stage in which they’d identified the illness, at least. The sickness would eat away at his lungs until he drowned in his own blood; such was the path he was now destined to walk.
A teeny, tiny bit of him thought that was just as well. He’d caught the disease in a brand new, far-off colony. Garlemald had taken many of that land’s people. While he would have preferred to die on the battlefield, a foreign land’s disease delivered its blow with the same righteousness.
“We don’t,” his father rebuffed, voice tight. “Need I remind you of the restraints of our physicians? Trust me, had any held back on what was available to them, the whole kingdom would be made aware through their immediate exile.”
“Forget this charade,” his uncle said. “There will be more Empires to rule, and more lands to conquer. Dalamud will wait if we will it. You care for him more than I’ve seen you care about a mortal for a millenium.”
Nonsensical though he knew his uncle to be, this talk bordered on the alarming.
His father dropped his hand. Before Lunus could focus his vision enough to understand or protest his movements, his father’s hand smoothed his hair back from his sweat-covered forehead. Though his father’s hand felt as ice, he knew that to be his own fever spiking. Though he’d had a few bouts of his illness spiking in the year since he’d contracted it, he felt in his bones that this would be the last.
His father knew it, too, based on how he coveted the seat by his bedside.
His father said, “... I’d have a moment alone with my son, Simus.”
All knew, despite the many reasons for the two to be at odds, Solus and Simus were thick as thieves when it came to their brotherhood. Though they bickered worse than old hens clucked, rare did they truly argue.
The tone Solus used now was not one he had ever heard him use against his brother.
“Hades,” his uncle said, voice almost too soft for Lunus to catch, “don’t do this to yourself. Not when it can be easily avoided. We cured this disease eons ago.”
Lunus remained silent, trying to understand what he was hearing.
Or, he tried to remain silent. But then he breathed wrong, and more liquid made itself known in his lungs. Another coughing fit set upon him, and again his father had to help him sit up to better cough out the red.
“Leave us,” his father snapped at Simus.
“Hades–”
“Leave us,” snarled his father, voice booming as though he were directing a retreat upon the field. “It’s obvious your presence does neither of us any good. There is nothing that can be done to change the inevitable ending here.”
By the silence ringing loud in his words’ wake, Simus had taken the cotton from his ears and left as requested.
At least, Lunus wasn’t aware of him saying anything more. Then again, for a while after, all he could concentrate on was trying to breathe – and intriguing though the brothers’ conversation was, he didn’t have the chance to truly ruminate on it.
After that, funnily enough, his medications tasted like lemon.
A week later, breathing became easier.
Two weeks after that, his medici praised him for his incredible recovery. No longer did he fight for every breath.
Three weeks thereafter, he could again stand from his bed. Though his steps shuffled and his breath grew short quickly, his mind cleared enough for him to follow and extrapolate from his wife’s war reports.
Two months after he heard his uncle and father fight for the first time, he was back in the war room himself, directing and strategizing.
The royal medicus told him the damage to his lungs was permanent, and that never again would he step foot into a battle. Although it was nowhere near ideal, he was at peace with paying that minor price after his brush with death. The war room required no shouting or marching; instead, his brother attended those matters. Though not ideal - as his wife pointed out, his brother certainly had designs on the throne - it would have to do until Varis was of age to take up arms.
Exhilarated to again be involved in his nation’s growth, he almost forgot about the strange conversation he’d overheard between his uncle and father. It wasn’t until a year later that he dragged up that hazy, feverish memory.
A year after his incredible recovery, his uncle visited the palace from a place afar. It was the first time since his brush with death that Simus had deigned to return to Garlemald’s capital. As such, to best avoid any implication that the royal family stood divided, his father demanded a lavish banquet for Simus’ return. Happy for any reason to forget the early-winter frost outside their walls, the attendees celebrated heartily, hardly paying attention to the alleged guest of honor (who was, truth told, a pariah due both to his unpredictable absences as well as his cavalier attitude and shameless appreciation of magicks). As they did so, Solus pulled his brother outside to a secluded balcony. Lunus saw the quiet departure purely by coincidence, and followed by purest curiosity, keeping as well as he could out of eyesight while remaining within earshot.
It was late in the hour. Guests didn’t seclude themselves from a banquet at such a time without one of three ideas in mind: romance, conspiracy, or both. None typically were appropriate to describe the eldest Galvuses. Yet, heads bent together, they took the tone and airs of the most dire conspirators.
“While I reap what you’ve sown, tell me now what you did,” Solus hissed, his face no more than an inch from Simus’.
“I’ve no idea what you mean,” Simus said, his hands up, expression the very picture of innocence. “Haven’t I given you nothing but a reason to celebrate? I thought that was why those hanger-ons have been so set on ruining my night by following me about and congratulating me on whatever latest rumor they believe to be true.”
“I assure you, if it is the truth underlying rumor that concerns you, your mysterious death will be a source of gossip for years.”
“That’s a funny way to say ‘thank you!’”
“Our family name is far too young to have its closets opened and curtains drawn back. I can’t believe you would risk all we’ve done this far–”
“I can’t believe you’d let fate place its yoke upon your shoulders–”
“For one creature’s paltry existence–”
“As if we couldn’t possibly recover from any consequences stemming from his survival, were there any consequences–”
“We have our roles to play! Roles you almost broke, after decades of hard work and dedication, in the only story which leads to recovering our brethren!”
“They matter not next to one you willingly call your son.”
Solus scowled and seethed. Simus stared back, undeterred as ever in the face of his brother’s rage. In the silence, the scene’s oddity struck Lunus to his core. Behind them thrived the party; before them, in the dark, stood his father and uncle, debating the inexplicable. It brought to mind a moment when he had been sick. He half-remembered it through his feverish haze. Thought it a dream or his imagination run wild, for his uncle had called his father not by his name, but some unknown title…
When the silence finally broke, he heard another unusual thing: the sound of his father giving in.
Solus muttered, looking begrudgingly appreciative, “You’re merely prolonging the inevitable. We can’t cure mortality.”
Simus smiled a small, true smile. Patting his brother on the cheek, he pressed a mocking - or was it caring? - kiss to the other’s forehead, right over his third eye.
He said, “No, but we can enjoy the time we have. Speaking of, he can hear us.”
“I’m well aware,” his father huffed, and then took the two steps backward that he needed in order to look directly at Lunus. “He always has been too curious for his own good.”
Unnoticed as he had thought he’d been, it took all of his military bearing not to jump out of his skin, turn tail and run. Instead, he took a second to pause and collect himself, then he cleared his throat and stepped out from behind the doorway and into the balcony.
“Father.” He nodded his head to Solus, then Simus. “Uncle. I’d apologize, but– correct me if I’m wrong. Were you discussing me?”
Solus waved a dismissive hand, calm in that uncaring manner that still managed to rankle Lunus. “Yes, but that conversation is now over. Let us return to the banquet; the populus must be missing their Emperor, and it wouldn’t do to keep them waiting. They might start getting ideas about finding a new one.”
“When you say Emperor, do you mean yourself or me?” Lunus asked, taking the dismissal with as much grace and good-humor as he could, considering that damned curiosity that was absolutely burning beneath his breast.
“He means himself, naturally,” Simus said, clapping a hand onto Lunus’ shoulder. “Not til he’s in the grave will he give up on anything, Lunus.”
“As I’ve known him all my life, I must agree - he’s rather stubborn.”
“It can be endearing.”
“It can be overbearing.”
“It can be effective,” his father interrupted, sniffing, “although less so when surrounded by court jesters rather than proactive ministers. I insist we see this tiresome night through, gentlemen. There are a number of individuals undoubtedly worrying themselves silly that they’ve missed their opportunity at convincing one of us to either adopt them into the royal family, or to abandon our wives and take them as new spouses.”
“He has a rather high opinion of himself, too, doesn’t he?” Simus asked Lunus, ignoring Solus in the entirety. “Suppose that’s what happens when you decide you want to become an Emperor.”
Lunus shared his grin. “It’s most definitely interesting. As if he doesn’t know that I got my good looks from my mother’s side.”
“Squandered though it is since you’ve inherited your uncle’s useless attitude,” Solus cut in, “and his interest in the inane. It isn’t attractive to eavesdrop, especially if you’re going to be caught. With your height, you’d have better luck masquerading as a potted plant than hiding in the shadows.”
Undaunted by his father’s criticism - truly, he complained too much and too easily for Lunus to take him seriously - Lunus kept up the light banter as they returned to the banquet. While they did, he buried deep his curiosity at their conversation. Neither would crack open on this night. When the moment was ripe, he’d open the box on what he thought he heard.
The more bold Garlean scholars often wondered how two minor nobles of the near-forgotten house Galvus had managed to scrape their way to the throne. While Solus’ innovations in machina and war were without peer, the man had little appetite for politics. Fortunate indeed was it that his younger brother had no ambition, but plenty of skill for royal management.
Unfortunately, a colony rebelled not two days after the celebration, and Lunus was forced to take an airship to the closest Garlean citadel to best assist the reclamation efforts.
It took seven months to quell the rebellion. Before he finalized the measures to see him back to Garlemald, he penned two letters: one to his wife and one to his father. Both explained the mundanities of his latest days, that the colony’s dry desert air had done his scarred lungs a world of good, and that he was happy to soon be home. To his wife, he asked after Varis’ health and education. While he did not mention that he’d spoken to a native hyur medicus and discovered that in no way would the medication he once took ever taste of lemon, he requested her to locate Simus and to set up a dinner for the three of them, ostensibly to catch-up on extended family affairs. As he boarded the airship, he thought it was well past time that he learned what Simus had done – and even more, what oddities he and ‘Hades’ had discussed.
None in his contingent or escort expected the remaining rebels - for there would always be rebels, whether or not they had the funds to make themselves known - to have an airship at their disposal. Nor did anyone expect that airship to be packed with ceruleum, and for its pilot to steer it directly into their ship’s side.
When Lunus died, it was inevitable.
x x x
The faintest line of doubt creased the edge of Elidibus’s mouth. “You’re treating with the Scions?”
“Don’t you worry, Themis,” Hythlodaeus lifted a hand to cover his wide smile. “Emet-Selch has it well in hand. With his arcane mastery and unrelenting nature, there’s nothing he can’t accomplish.”
Emet-Selch said nothing.
Doubt intensifying, Elidibus looked toward him for elaboration.
“Themis?” he echoed, blank in his confusion.
Hythlodaeus laughed. Hades looked away.
x x x
Incorrect though allies was to describe the two ascians added to their midst, they certainly proved immediately useful.
Well. One of them proved useful. Unfortunately, that one revoked all usefulness at the slightest hint that the other would be excluded.
“Pain, pain, go away,” sing-songed the useful one, “and don’t come back any other day.”
Hythlodaeus had waited to heal Emet-Selch until after he’d safely teleported them back to the Crystarium, escorted them directly into the Tower’s sanctum, and lended an extra hand to patch up their Warrior of Light and the Exarch. As he did the latter, he mused loudly about how his good friend Emet-Selch had always been an incredible sorcerer, but somehow, despite that, remained absolutely abysmal at healing magics. He said these things while that good friend was left propped-up and bloody by the sanctum’s doors.
Thancred didn’t know what to think. He wasn’t alone in that, either; all the Scions stood in a loose gaggle on the other side of the room, watching near-silently as Hythlodaeus at last tended to his friend.
“I really don’t think he means us harm,” Ryne said, voice hushed in a vain effort to not be heard over Hythlodaeus’ aimless humming and Emet-Selch’s roaring displeasure.
“The night has returned,” Urianger noted, equally quiet.
The dark sky had been the first thing Thancred noticed upon their return.
Even still, Ryne had a tendency toward being too nice, while Urianger had a track record of searching for ulterior motives where there were none. For instance: ascians craved Rejoinings. Thancred couldn’t see any other motive existing for them. Letting one repair another when said other was the toughest they’d faced didn’t seem wise.
And yet…
“There you go!” Thancred’s attention snapped over as Hythlodaeus stood from his crouch over his friend, the green fading from his hands. “Right as rain. Congratulations, my dear friend. You’re still alive.”
“Fantastic,” drawled Emet-Selch, his eyes sliding shut. He didn’t bother standing. “I’m in your debt as always, Hythlodaeus.”
“He’s looking forward to having to explain himself to you all,” Hythlodaeus said to them, turning abruptly on a heel to face them. “Although, if I know him, he already did. It probably just wasn’t what you wanted to hear. If you’d like to hear it again…”
“That’s alright,” Y’shtola said, voice far more level than Thancred’s would’ve been. “Your instinct is right; we do well know his reasons. Do you mean to imply yours differs?”
Head tipping one way and then back the other, Hythlodaeus hummed, noncommittal.
He then looked directly at Urianger. “Your aether is very thin. Would you like help returning to your proper body?”
Thancred frowned.
After a pause, Urianger said, voice as steady as Y’shtola’s, “Art thou offering thine assistance?”
“Sure.” Hythlodaeus nodded. “If you’d like it.”
“At what cost?” asked Thancred.
“Allow me to continue lending you my assistance,” he said, “and don’t try to murder me. I won’t try to murder you, either. I don’t think I could stomach either excitement at the moment, truth be told. – Oh!” He gave a self-deprecating chuckle. “And I promise Emet-Selch will follow the same restrictions, too.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.” He looked over his shoulder and down at his friend. “Isn’t that right, Emet-Selch?”
Emet-Selch frowned back, but then, slowly, shifted his eyes over to them.
He said, as haughty as if he hadn’t been one axe-throw away from a true and well-deserved death, “Returning you all to the Source is an easy matter.”
“Walk us through the process,” the Exarch asked, “and then– … yes. On that subject, I’m afraid we have not the time to be picky. Although, I did have an idea of how it might be accomplished with our own resources…”
“Did you? Let’s trade an idea for an idea, then.” Hythlodaeus sure was a chipper fellow. “Before you know it, you’ll all be home.”
Despite his many misgivings, Thancred was intrigued by that particular offer.
x x x
“I didn’t think you had friends.”
“Now, hold on one moment. I swear we’ve already been over that Ascians have lived and loved the same as the rest of you. Considering the whole of your world depends upon you, your lacking short-term memory terrifies me.”
Cahsi, famed Warrior of Light and Darkness (depending on who you asked), rolled her eyes. “That’s not what I meant.”
Hythlodaeus had made more than good on his promise. After safely ferrying their souls - G’raha’s included - back to the Source, he’d charmed his way into Tataru’s good graces and managed to not get himself or Emet-Selch kicked out of the Rising Stones by offering her a financial venture of a lifetime. That was: he offered her moon rocks. When confronted by her befuddlement, he explained that Ascians frequented the moon, as it was, in fact, Lord Zodiark’s unfortunate prison.
When pressed on what exactly he meant by their moon containing one of the eldest primals known to man, he offered to bring them all there. It just made sense, he said, and since they had proven themselves fine adventurers indeed, they might as well visit, especially considering the fact that they were so interested in Lord Zodiark, despite the fact all he does is sit there and be imprisoned.
Topic thus brokered, he worked with Y’shtola and the others on the logistics of such travel. Though he assured them nothing extra was needed for a moon visit, as he could teleport them without trouble to its surface, they continued not to believe him. While they discussed the finer points of off-Star travel, Cahsi very stealthily cornered Emet-Selch in a side room for a sorely needed heart-to-rotten-heart talk.
“You’ll have to elaborate on what you did mean, then,” Emet-Selch said, crossing his arms and radiating impatience for her to stop bothering him.
For that annoying look alone, Cahsi felt tempted to kick him in the shin. Somehow, she restrained herself.
Instead, she asked, “Is he a Paragon, too? It’s clear he’s really strong. But I don’t recall any ancient or modern recordings of a white-masked Ascian.”
“He’s another Unsundered, yes.” A pause. “Paragon implies he takes his job seriously.”
“So him inviting us to the moon doesn’t surprise you.”
“Very little surprises me, especially regarding him. Call it a natural by-product of knowing someone for more than a few millennia.”
“What exactly are you or he expecting us to do once we’re there?” Cahsi pressed. “Aside from defeating your Primal. You do realize we’re going to have to at least try that. It’s the foundation to my whole brand.”
“I believe he expects you to gather a bushel of moon rocks and make a happy little profit back here on the Star.”
He was being annoying. Cahsi refused to rise to the bait.
But, she did roll her eyes again. “Okay. Right. And you’re not going to stop him?”
“My dear Champion,” he drawled, his eyes hooded but sharper than Alisaie’s rapier, “I have stopped him all of once in our entire lives. Of the many possibilities in this world, that will never again be one.”
x x x
The second time they met an Azem shard, they had a better handle on their reaction.
(The first meeting involved nothing but death.)
At the time, Azem’s shard was a short, skinny, long-eared woman. She called herself Vhos, and she’d traveled far from the forest she’d been born in. They met her by pure coincidence. She’d wandered into the ruined temple they’d been investigating for yet another possible answer to the overall Shard problem. Hades had turned himself invisible to her eyes immediately, uninterested in dealing with the local wildlife. Unfortunately for him, Hythlodaeus had taken one look and known: there, right there, was again a piece of her. They could make better the opportunity they had previously squandered.
He’d outed Hades from his hiding place at the nearest opportunity, of course. She, as a naturally curious soul, recovered quickly from the surprise of finding two robed figures in an otherwise abandoned temple. Luckily, they hadn’t their masks on - it had just been them, after all, with Elidibus and Lahabrea investigating a separate lead half-way across the Star - but even if they had, Hythlodaeus felt confident she would excuse the oddity.
Azem’s tendency toward the absurd had shined bright in that particular shard. Resisting its pull would have been a fool’s errand.
Or so Hythlodaeus convinced Hades the night before they temporarily abandoned their investigation to follow Vhos through one of her many little adventures.
She wasn’t their Azem, but at least she was an Azem.
Hades didn’t agree, but– Hades had started to forget how to live a balanced life even back then. That had been why Hythlodaeus had taken the reins and forced him to tag along, his scowling face bare for Vhos to (re-)learn.
One little adventure naturally led to another, and another, and another. On and on it went, til they were regulars at every dusty tavern along the road, and Vhos was happy to have Hythlodaeus’ arm around her shoulder, and Hades didn’t recoil when Vhos jabbed her finger into his chest to make a point. On and on that went, too, til they found a tavern not too dusty, and Vhos slipped her arm around Hythlodaeus’ waist, and Hades curled a fist into Vhos’ lapel and kissed her, harsh and wanting and desperate.
There, they found their way to the tavern’s stuffy attic which doubled as its only boarding room. There, Hythlodaeus discovered that Vhos’ long ears were covered in the most velvety fur, and that she made almost the same noises as Azem had when she sank down on him until she was seated to the hilt.
Face flushed, mouth open and gasping, she pressed herself close to Hythlodaeus as Hades covered her back. Hades grasped her hips tight – Hythlodaeus dragged his hands down her sides, laced his fingers through his – and she set the rhythm, natural as breathing, slow and rolling, her legs tight around Hythlodaeus and her hands buried in his long, unbraided hair.
When he closed his eyes, shut off his senses and focused only on the feel of her– her soft skin, her short hair, her small breasts tight against his chest– Hades’ fingers laced through his, the sounds the two of them made as they moved in tandem– peace rose as a wave and Hythlodaeus let it wash over him, everything in him stilling at last as he came, feeling like he’d returned home after far, far too long.
She laughed, breathy and light, when Hythlodaeus pulled out and Hades immediately replaced him. He found no resistance from her, either in body or mind; she merely tucked her face into the sweaty crook of Hythlodaeus’ neck and shoulder, angled her hips up, and kept up her lazy, rolling rhythm. She moved her hands to his arms, bracing herself mostly on him as Hades fucked her. Hythlodaeus, for his part, curled his arms across her back, one hand raising to cradle her head, fingers scratching idly at her scalp.
Though he suspected Hades had taken his position because he could not stand to see her face (weathered as it was by involuntary hardships), he also suspected that they had both lost themselves to the moment’s warmth and their new, old bedfellow.
Confirmation came when Hades bent low and Hythlodaeus felt the shift just in time to open his eyes, see his intent, and angle his head correctly for a kiss. The push-pull rocking slowed to a sensual grind; Hades made the smallest noise in the back of his throat, pleased and lost and undeniably happy. As ever, Hythlodaeus followed his friend’s cue - lost himself, too, holding Eris close as he opened his mouth for Hades, delighted at the deepening kiss and the heady weight over him. His guiding stars, his inescapable loves— it had been so, so long.
For one precious minute, there was nothing but the sound of life.
Until–
Until. She squirmed, laughed, and gazed side-long at them both with pupils blown and smile wide and teased, “I’d wondered if— mmh, no. You two– ah. You two must have done this before, hm? Are you always so welcoming to the strangers you meet?”
Hythlodaeus stilled, fingers tangled in her hair and eyes snapping open. Hades broke their kiss, pulling back as his breath caught and his hips stuttered, his rhythm crooked.
He knew she caught the tension, as her fingers flexed on his shoulders. A ripple of uncertainty, of question, one long, velvety ear flicking up to catch wind of what could have changed–
Hades set a hand into the small of her back, and raised a leg to let him better drive into her. The tension shattered. To the increased pace, she laughed happily; to the roughness, she spread her legs wider and dropped her hips, so that she might grind down on his stomach as Hades set a more punishing rhythm. She cajoled him to keep it up, welcoming the challenge, encouraging him to go faster, harder, come on, is that all you’ve got?
A piece of their Azem, indeed.
Over her, Hades said nothing. His head had tipped forward, his longer-than-it-had-been hair falling in front of his face.
(How long had it been since Hythlodaeus had bothered to braid his hair? A year, perhaps. Longer, since Hades had cut his.)
They returned to the abandoned temple the next morning.
The tenth time they met Azem’s shard, it was on the cusp of battle. Civilization had discovered that it had an appetite for war. To be fair, it acquired the taste after it experienced its First Calamity. By the Third Calamity, war was a time-honored tradition for the sundered.
They spied the telltale soul and its blazen courage from the edge of the camp. While Hythlodaeus weighed the positives and negatives of cajoling Hades into setting aside their current task and approaching their old friend, Hades turned to him and held out a small, orange crystal.
“Miserable thing, isn’t it?”
“... Is that for Azem?” Hythlodaeus asked after a moment. He already knew the answer.
Hades didn’t call him out on his stalling. He simply nodded, expression twisted up in a thousand knots of displeasure and desperation. When he called it miserable, he referred to the shard and the crystal both.
Taking in the sight before him, Hythlodaeus finally tilted his head to the side, put his hands on his hips, and tsked. “My, my. The forbidden Fourteenth Seat. What would Lahabrea say, I wonder.”
“Nothing constructive, which is why he hasn’t been informed.” Hades sniffed. “I merely wanted to let you know that it’s been made. I’ve no intention of sharing this with that creature over there; the shard will surely reject its past as much as the original rejected her future.”
“Yes. Bold in all respects. I remember her well.” Another pause. Then he said, exactly as Hades had expected, “Might I take a look?”
When Hades passed it over, the crystal warmed quickly in his hand. The orange caught the dusk’s light and held it, gleaming with false livelihood up at him.
After he gazed at it for some time, his mouth opened and his tongue ran away from him.
He asked, “Did you make one for me?”
“What?” Hades physically recoiled from him, shoulders stiffening and jaw clenched tight. “You’re right here. You carry your own memories. Why would I make one for you?”
“In case…”
“In case of what?”
“... I was thinking, even if you did raise her back to her seat…”
“She’d be nothing but a hindrance.”
“Yes. She’d absolutely hate it.”
Silence. The crystal continued to glimmer in the dying light. Try though he knew he should, Hythlodaeus couldn’t take his eyes from it.
He wanted to throw it away. Preferably into a deep, deep ocean, where a fish would eat it and then a bigger fish would eat that fish and then a ridiculously plain, boring, normal shark would eat that fish and then die and sink to the bottom of the ocean and rot and all its innards be buried by the sands so that the crystal would be buried too and lost forever.
Alternatively, he wanted to crush it into itty bitty bits, and throttle his sweet, sentimental Hades for ever thinking it was a good idea.
“We haven’t all day,” Hades said eventually, even though they really did. He was probably aware of Hythlodaeus’ line of thought and wanted to keep them moving away from the strangulation. “Go on. Take a look. Verify that it is as I said - a proper memory crystal - and nothing more, but nothing less.”
“Though you can’t understand why, it remains that she chose to die far from us.”
“That has nothing to do with preserving her memory,” Hades drawled, tone dry. He was absolutely aware that Hythlodaeus wanted to hurt him (as much as he was aware Hythlodaeus never would).
“Perhaps,” Hythlodaeus tore his eyes from the fraudulent replicant, fixed his gaze upon his keeper, “though you couldn’t understand why, you should have allowed me to remain with my choice, as well.”
Again, Hades reeled back as if actually struck.
“You mean your– please! Your errant choice to sacrifice yourself was no choice at all. Modesty does not suit you at this juncture, my dear; your skill and expertise were the exact things that saw Elidibus, Lahabrea and I to safety.”
“Maybe so, but maybe not. In any case, the sacrifices were completely voluntary. Your Convocation made sure that such sacrifice would mean nothing less.” Hythlodaeus could not bear to look away. Dusk sharpened Hades’ cheekbones, and cast shadows across his worried eyes. Eris had looked similar when she’d stepped down from the Convocation and disappeared in one last, eternal journey into the horizon, her promise to bring back an alternative answer to their annihilation doomed to remain forever unfilled. “You could have made me a memory crystal, too. You could have carried my memory across lands far and wide… Then regale me with what you learned, with eyes unburdened from my dalliances, when at last Zodiark was made whole.”
“We needed you,” he said, not honest enough because that would have been and had always been I needed you, which Hythlodaeus had the misfortune of knowing then and ever after. Then, to save face, as if he could, he said: “Besides, considering how easily distracted you are from job to job, I already carry you to most places. I fail to see the difference in burden between that and this.”
In answer, Hythlodaeus handed back the miserable crystal, and carefully did not crush it, because then they would actually need to fight, and Hades was one of three individuals in the whole entire universe that Hythlodaeus didn’t have to worry about violence with, which was its own kind of miserable fact.
“The key difference is that, now,” with the Third Calamity’s marks upon their glorious Star and war brewing unhindered on the horizon, “Azem would despair to know us.”
(If Hades kept the crystal - and he likely did - he never again showed it to Hythlodaeus.)
x x x
To the Scions’ eternal surprise, safely teleporting them to the moon without additional, lethal surprises was fully within an Ascian’s power.
After they arrived, the Scions immediately set off to meander about the edges of Zodiark’s prison. While they did, Hythlodaeus and Hades kept watch from a distance. Elidibus was undoubtedly attempting to get the First back on track, unaware of the reason for Hades’ and Hythlodaeus’ dalliance, and would be sufficiently distracted until it was too late for him to intervene. The Scions, being fine adventurers, likely thought the exploration of their surroundings to be necessary. They would inevitably find the Watcher, who would inevitably tell them what exactly they were looking at. Hythlodaeus would have explained it all directly, but they were a curious lot that didn’t easily accept an Ascian’s word.
At his side, Hades grumbled about time wasted, but also did nothing to change their path. He knew as much as Hythlodaeus that they had good reason to verify the truth for themselves.
The Hydaelyn-made satellite was as maddeningly quiet as ever. Beneath their feet, what remained of their brethren’s unsundered souls slept in their primal prison.
Hythlodaeus mused, not for the first time: “I wonder what it’s like not to be tempered.”
“We weren’t always so.” Hades replied, neutral as ever on the topic of any negatives associated with Lord Zodiark. Mask absent, he’d maintained his Garlean appearance underneath his Ascian robes. Hythlodaeus couldn’t deny that Solus looked good on him, and so had kept his teasing to a minimum. “As who we once were resulted in our tempering, we’re merely a natural evolution from then.”
“Considering the circumstances of their birth, there’s little natural about a primal.”
“Lord Zodiark’s creation came from the will and determination of our people. In that way, the circumstances of his birth were not very different from the concepts we once manufactured and perfected.”
Hythlodaeus slid him a half-smile. “You can’t tell me you remember what it’s like not to be tempered.”
“You’ll have to elaborate on the reason such a memory would matter.”
“Come now, Hades! Where’s your grand intellectual curiosity that I admire so much?”
“...” Shoulders tensing, back becoming rigid, Hades’ eyes darted to his. “– What did you do?”
It was the same question he’d asked after Lunus had walked away from his final sick bed.
The consequences felt, somehow, similar.
Hythlodaeus clasped a hand on his shoulder, ignoring how stiff it was. “As I said, dear friend. Brilliant and unshakeable though your principles are, it’s clear to the both of us that your path has ended. You needn’t carry our people’s burden on your shoulders any more. You can rest.” Though Hades drew breath to interrupt, Hythlodaeus spoke over him. “It’s now my turn to carry you – and though your journey might be done, mine isn’t. As I’ve supported you through yours, please, say you’ll now support me through mine.”
Before them, a safe distance away, the sound of breaking seals reverberated. The first pillar that had long held their Lord in solitude cracked and crumbled. As the dust settled, the Warrior of Light - Azem’s shard, Azem’s natural evolution, Azem’s legacy - stood, her fierce soul as brilliant as it had ever been.
Eyes wide, Hades jerked his shoulder away from his grip to take a step toward the noise. Hythlodaeus let him.
In short order, another pillar fell. In its wake: the white and red haired miqo’tes, as focused and fierce as the Warrior they traveled with. The adventurers were fine, indeed, and wasted no time in reaching their goal. Just as Hythlodaeus had expected – and hoped.
His Hades, unwavering and true, was no fool. He quickly put together what Hythlodaeus had done - rather, what he had allowed them to do by bringing them to the moon. Further, he understood by Hythlodaeus’ unmoving feet what goal he intended to allow them to complete. Perhaps he also understood that if he had fallen to them, then Zodiark would surely also fall; Hades would be there for their kin, to usher them safely to the Underworld; and though the Final Days might return, though they and Elidibus would remain to the last, the adventurers would meet their challenges head-on. Such brave beings, able to fell both sorcerer of eld and his God, would devise a better way forward.
At last, at last, the world would again change.
Hythlodaeus couldn’t wait to see what it would look like.
To Hades, he knew, their world was ending - for real, forever. Worse yet, he would live through its final death.
Thus: fists clenched and ire rising, Hades spun to face him. The air around them crackled with twisting aether, both from broken seals and broken belief, as Hades weighed his loyalty to his God and his heart and found neither wanting, but both aching.
He would come around. Against his better judgment, he’d keep his word.
Nonetheless. Knowing he had put Hades in a place without choice - a place both of them had lived in for so long - didn’t make his snarled accusation easier to hear.
“And what, pray tell, is your journey?”
Still, Hythlodaeus smiled.
“To see hers through.”