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She is swimming in a sea of lava.
That is all she can think to call it. Lava—or perhaps that should be magma?—hot and thick and viscous. She isn’t certain of her bearings. She isn’t certain how she got here. She isn’t even certain of her name. All she knows is that she is burning and there seems to be no way out.
She swims and swims and swims, unsure of her direction, unsure of where she is going, unsure if there is a world before or after or outside of the lava. She swims until she is exhausted past the point of caring, past the point of feeling, until even the heat ceases to matter and it disturbs her no longer.
And then she stops, and floats, and lets the blackness take her.
There are fingers running through her hair.
That is the first thing she notices when she returns to sensation. She is no longer burning and there are fingers in her hair. The air is cool against her skin, save for her beneath her cheek, where her face rests on something warm and soft and covered in woven fabric.
She sighs and keeps her eyes firmly shut. The hand in her hair stops.
“I know you’re awake,” a voice says above her. For some reason she expected the voice to be annoyed, but it isn’t. It’s soft and low and laced through with unconcealed concern. It is unusual enough to startle her, and startling enough to worry her, and she opens her eyes and turns her head.
It takes a surprising effort to focus and see the features she has come to hold so dear. His eyes are sunken, their golden color dulled; his white hair is falling into his face, rather than carefully styled to keep out of the way. She reaches one heavy arm up and traces her fingers against his jaw. The rough edges of stubble catch at her touch. It’s been days since he last shaved.
“You look tired.”
This time, Emet-Selch’s brow creases. It’s something closer to his usual expression, save that his usual expression is not nearly so laden with exhaustion and anxiety. “And whose fault do you think that is?”
“Surely not mine?”
He pulls his hand from her hair and flicks her forehead. She laughs, but her throat is rough and dry, and she soon stops.
The door opens quietly and Hythlodaeus steps in, holding in one hand a glass of water. His gaze the color of violets sweeps over them just as she glances at him. He looks just as tired as Emet-Selch, though he’s put in more of an effort to be presentable: His plait is messy, almost falling out of its loose tie, and he doesn’t seem to have noticed his shirt is on backwards. Even so, the smile that lights his face when he sees them is as bright as ever.
“Finally, you’re awake,” he says. He crosses to their bed in three long strides. He leans over, lips brushing Emet-Selch’s just briefly, and hands him the glass; then he kneels down and folds her hand into both of his.
His touch is cool. Has Hythlodaeus’s skin always been that cold, or is she still swimming in the lava?
“What’s the last thing you remember, Azem?” he asks, and though his smile is kind, his eyes are darkened with the same shadow that haunts Emet-Selch.
For a moment the name sounds strange to her, but then she remembers. “Azem.” Yes, that’s right, she is “Azem.” That is the name by which most of the star knows her, save for the two in this very room, the only two who may speak her true name in all its intimacy.
She gives his question deep thought. Enough time passes that the furrows in Emet-Selch’s brow deepen again, and the brightness of Hythlodaeus’s smile begins to fade, but then she says, “Hades’s nameday. When I filled his office with all your shark concepts pending review, and then neither of you could work, so we went home early and celebrated the whole night. With whipped cream and that delicious chocolate sauce.”
Emet-Selch sighs explosively and rolls his eyes to the heavens, as if that does anything to hide his grin. Hythlodaeus chuckles, bringing up one hand to cover his mouth. “That was six moons ago.”
She blinks at him, her eyes widening. Surely not? The memory is so fresh and vivid in her mind it might as well have been yesterday. She tries again. “…I came home early and unexpectedly from one of the eastern ritual ceremonies. Hades is so impatient sometimes; you didn’t even reach the living room. I had to open a portal to get in, and the first thing I saw was his mouth full with—”
“Enough,” Emet-Selch growls. He is covering his face with one hand. Whether to hide his exasperation or his blush, she doesn’t know.
Hythlodaeus laughs, moving to sit on the bed. He places one hand on the small of Emet-Selch’s back and drops a kiss on his cheek. Emet-Selch groans.
“You’re getting closer,” Hythlodaeus says as Emet-Selch takes shelter behind his glass of water. “One moon ago.”
She tries, she really does, but it’s always been hard to focus when both of her lovers are looking down at her with such unfeigned adoration. “When I returned from Pandaemonium—”
Hythlodaeus is already snickering. Emet-Selch is already scowling. “No.”
She does not let that deter her. “You were very curious about the aetherial shackles.”
“Azem—”
“You wanted to see if you could replicate them properly from my description alone.” She blinks innocently. Hythlodaeus is convulsed with laughter; only the fact that he is leaning against Emet-Selch keeps him upright. “That was fun.”
“You are doing this on purpose,” Emet-Selch accuses.
“Three moons ago,” Hythlodaeus says at the same time.
She flinches at that. She cannot help it. Yes, she had mentioned it to get a rise from Emet-Selch, but was it truly so long ago? And that was before the time she’d returned to find Hythlodaeus stripped bare, his back pressed against their front door?
They see her reaction and their expressions grow serious once again. Emet-Selch’s lips tighten and he looks away. Hythlodaeus sighs, cupping her face in one hand, and explains at last. “You’ve been unconscious, suffering the effects of severe aetheric corruption.”
He brushes his thumb against her cheek and leans over her. No trace of laughter is to be found in his eyes. “Your aether—your memories—were thoroughly muddled. Emmerololth and Hades have had their hands full trying to sort you out. We weren’t sure if…”
Hythlodaeus trails off, unwilling to put words to what they feared. She stares up at them, equally reluctant to consider the possibilities. If she had forgotten everything, if all that she was had been subsumed into fever and lava, what would she have done? What would they have done?
At last she asks, “What color are my eyes?”
Emet-Selch and Hythlodaeus exchange glances. Emet-Selch’s voice is gentle when he replies, “The same as always.”
One violet and one gold.
She beams. “Everything will be fine, then.”
Emet-Selch sighs, but his lopsided smile bespeaks his relief.
She plants her hands on the mattress and pushes herself up into a sitting position. It is more of an effort than she expects; her arms tremble and nearly give out under her, and she almost collapses back into Emet-Selch’s lap. He catches and supports her, pulling her against him, and she rests her head on his shoulder and breathes out slowly.
Has she ever been so weak? When she blinks, her vision is blurry, and her throat is already sore from speaking. She is tired, too, but she wants to stay awake for a little while longer. She wants to speak with them for a little while longer, if only to ease the shadows of worry from their eyes.
Hythlodaeus reaches out, picking up the glass of water Emet-Selch set aside, and brings it to her lips. She sips gratefully but makes no move to take the glass. She does not want them to see it tremble in her hands.
By the time she is done drinking, another memory has resurfaced. “I summoned you to an island formed of clouds. They were as soft and fluffy as I’d always imagined.”
“And as cold and wet, too,” Emet-Selch says. “That was three sennights ago.”
“Hythlodaeus brought home some of the more… questionable recent submissions. One of them flooded the entire house with breathable water.”
“Hm… about four moons ago,” Hythlodaeus says. “Good for overcoming the natural limitations imposed on us by gravity. Not so good for fish.”
“We grew frustrated with our colleagues and stayed up all night trying to distract from our duties, but then we slept through the Convocation meeting the next morning.”
Hythlodaeus grins. “On which occasion?”
“Pashtarot yelled at us,” she adds.
“…On which occasion?”
Emet-Selch sighs and shakes his head. Though his words are as aggrieved as always, his arm around her is possessive and his eyes are soft. “Can you not recall any memory that does not involve bedding us?”
“I don’t see why I would,” she says mischievously. “They’re the important ones, after all.”
Hythlodaeus laughs. Emet-Selch tries to stifle his chuckle, but she can feel it rumbling within his chest nonetheless. Hythlodaeus reaches out, grasping a lock of her long white hair and bringing it to his lips, and she smiles and closes her eyes.
She thinks this time, letting the memories drift through and slot themselves into place. She thinks, and the shape of events begins to form before her.
“A remote island within a day’s voyage of a small fishing village in the south,” she says slowly. “There were reports of mutated fish and birds crossing the sea. But it wasn’t just the animals; when I arrived, I found the lands twisted and the plants too malformed. Something had gone very wrong.”
A little silence.
“Ah,” Hythlodaeus says. “Yes, that would be the one. One fortnight ago.”
She sighs. Emet-Selch’s grip on her tightens. Hythlodaeus reaches out, clasping his hand around Emet-Selch’s wrist, fingers brushing against her back. She lays her hand atop his arm, completing their circle.
“I’m fine,” she murmurs, as much to reassure them as to convince herself. It will be true, in the future if not now. They are here, in her memories and with their arms around her, and that is all she needs to anchor her.
Her voice is growing hoarse and her throat sore again, but she asks, “What happened in the end? Did we manage to make it right?”
“What do you think of us?” Emet-Selch says, even now pretending offense. “You called to us for help. Of course we made it right.”
She laughs, pressing her lips against his neck. His skin too is cool to the touch. She is tired, so tired.
“One last question.”
“Anything,” Hythlodaeus says.
“What’s the difference between lava and magma again?”