06. avatar — Emet-Selch and Fable. Partial continuation from this piece. cw: consent issues stemming from tempering; mentions of past violence; adult themes. >1k words.
"Emet-Selch?" she whispered from where she lay against his chest.
His answer was barely formed hm? passed through sealed lips. The rotted rafters of the Little Loft held his attention; primordial Light still reigned in Kholusia and his Aether, patching the holes in the roof, was the only thing keeping it from pouring through.
Fable canted her head his way. She was no longer slick with perspiration but her dark hair still clung to her brow and forehead, curling where it was still damp.
He met her eyes with his own lidded stare.
"In Rak'tika, you knew I'd find the Lifestream. How?"
The corner of his mouth formed a half-smile, one which lacked any true sincerity. Azem was ever the clever boy; such wit would have entertained him in other circumstances. Tonight, however, his mind lay elsewhere.
Perhaps it was the Light's fault, boring down upon them. Kholusia was the most logical selection for their private affair, but the canopy of Light remained a problem. It weakened him both physically and mentally, bringing him to a dangerous precipice — and when his guard was down, the other crept in.
"Fortuitous guesswork," he answered absently.
In truth, he had thought to fashion her an Aetheric lantern, one which would guide her to the Lifestream. Were it any other soul, he might have — but this was not just any soul and she needed no assistance there.
"Don't lie."
It was simply stated, without venom or hysteria. Two words, two syllables, and yet the command snapped him awake.
The room regained its color. Her face, drawn with concern, became clear to him again. He could feel her soft skin and the warmth pouring from it.
Was I asleep? he wondered with growing alarm.
"Hey, wait," she was saying, but his harsh breath nearly drowned her voice. "Emet-"
His shock must have been plainly displayed, because at once she was sitting up and letting the sheet fall from her bare body.
They had fucked tonight, but the memory felt distant and dream-like, as though watching it through a spyglass. He could see it, he could even make out the details but he couldn't put the pieces together to form a true experience.
It unsettled him.
Control was the one thing he coveted for himself. Control over himself and his many plans — only now, his was decaying as it had for Lahabrea and Elidibus before him.
What a timely reminder from his Lord God.
Fable reached for his face with tender hands, but he grabbed her wrists to stop her.
"Enough," he snapped, and when she blanched he added, "Must you be so clingy? What would your Scion friends think if they saw you doting on the enemy like this?"
A low-blow cheaply made, but it worked. She pulled back, burned by his words, his outright rejection, and then she looked away. Her hair curtained whatever expression she wore, concealing it from him.
"I tire of this place," he continued, untangling himself from her and the sheets. Manually dressing was an unnecessary chore, but he did it for annoyed affect — pants and robe first, then coat, boots and gloves.
She did not leave the bed, nor did she look his way.
He set his jaw and felt his shoulders round further, until his posture returned to its true slump.
For a moment, he considered saying something, perhaps even apologizing. One parting word alone might lessen the blow and ease things between them.
Then he looked at her and remembered Vesna's face, blanched white with a dagger in her heart from his unwilling hand. He remembered Kalen's face and Caspian's, too. All reflections of Azem and all dead by a hand not entirely his own.
This was for the best, he decided, and he departed without another word.
When had the blush of girlhood finally left her? She considered her reflection, which a year ago had seemed so much softer. Now there were new scars among old ones, like the white knick where her ribcage met, and the creep of harsh lines curling over her shoulders. She was underweight, too, and the loss of muscle left her looking raw — like a thing rather than a person. A what rather than a who.
Her skin overnight had traded its former radiance for this sickly appearance. In some places, she could spot her veins under the surface, green and visible and no doubt the source of this pain.
She met her own contemptuous stare and studied that pain.
Pain was understood as a reaction, a protective measure against further damage: you place your hand on the hot stove, you burn, you flinch away. But no one ever told you what it became when it did not end — when it stretched for long periods seemingly without cause or purpose.
Her eyes welled with tears, but she blinked them back, too resentful to allow herself the chance to cry.
In quiet moments such as this, she blamed him. Emet-Selch. Hades. She blamed G'raha Tia, the Crystal Exarch, too — these men with their masks and their plans. She even blamed Hydaelyn, and Zodiark with her.
Everyone had celebrated when she took in the Light, when she became a receptacle for unwanted Aether. They cheered again when Emet-Selch died and they would cheer the same when she finally wrapped her hands around Zenos' neck.
Was this all there was now? Pain and death, death and pain. Was this her life? Was this all she'd ever been?
03. scale — Hades contemplates his ascent. Word count: 489.
Lahabrea once accused him of clawing his way into power, a rather rudimentary insult that somehow vexed Hades twelve millennia after the fact. Mortal men clawed — mortal men with simple minds quarreled and backstabbed for their lack of foresight and planning.
Hades had done no such thing. He earned everything he ever took.
The seat of Emet-Selch was not stolen but given readily. Hythlodaeus needed no persuasion to abandon the Convocation's call; he had made that choice of his own volition. With no other suitable candidate, the Convocation turned to Hades.
Unspoken, of course, was the rift such a decision was bound to cause the two friends. Hythlodaeus, with his amiable nature and empathetic disposition, had no business issuing commands in Amaurot. Lahabrea had selected him first for plainly obvious reasons: Hythlodaeus was malleable.
The process and his' subsequent second place left its mark on Hades. As Emet-Selch would never have the explicit trust of Lahabrea. In turn, Hades could never trust the other man to honor his best interests.
By the Third Astral Era, Emet-Selch bothered only to communicate his plans to Elidibus lest Lahabrea find some fault in the scheme.
But even Allag, free of interference from his brethren, had its limitations. Its civilization, painstakingly crafted, stagnated without a hand to drive it forward. Thus came Xande, the great oaf.
While easy to manipulate, even the simplest minds with too much authority could stray from the path laboriously set before them. What ought to have been quick work droned on without end until said oaf, in a haze of carefully crafted paranoia, turned to the Cloud of Darkness.
Fond as he was of Allag, the empire overstayed its welcome. He remedied that mistake with Garlemald.
Solus Galvus he selected for two reasons: the first, House Galvus was crumbling and its line, entrusted to a spoiled little lordling, had no future; the second, Hades had liked his name.
Solus Galvus. Sol / us — a rather romantic tribute to his Azem.
As Emperor, he brought forth the Seventh Umbral Calamity in just under fifty years — a true feat. Could Hythlodaeus have ever accomplished what he had? Could Lahabrea, were he still alive?
From his vantage place in the boughs of Rak’tika, Emet-Selch wondered what might come next. Once Black Rose had unleashed its full devastation, he would tip the First beyond the brink and usher in the Source’s eighth Calamity. If only Lahabrea were alive to see it.
If only he were alive to witness Hades’ work and choke on his own tongue.
He did not dwell on the thought overlong, appealing as it was. A peel of laughter below brought his attention to the present, to the so-called Scions of the Seventh Dawn and their illustrious hero.
He found himself frowning. Perhaps this Azem would survive once more and finally they could set aside their differences.
But then... perhaps not. There were more Rejoinings to come.
02. aberrant — fable & the conjurer's guild. wc: 202.
"Your magic is... aggressive."
"Sorry," she replied, for lack of anything else to say.
"When you ascended into this role, you took an oath to uphold the balance and preserve the dignity of the art."
Her head sank lower. Tears formed in the corner of her eyes, clouding her vision. Again she said, "I'm sorry," in an increasingly quiet voice.
"Such an emotional apology might be easy to accept if you could explain yourself to us."
"I... I thought I was supposed to beat Ser Braiphant-"
"By using your wand as a spear?"
"He... threw his lance at me, so I only thought-"
"He is a lancer! Ser Braiphant is supposed to throw his lance. If you wanted to be a lancer, you ought to have made that decision years ago and saved us this time."
"And what was that casting?" called another voice. "Your form was..."
"Tempestuous?" a hearer offered.
"Zealous?" said a Padjal.
"It was certainly assertive."
The tears in her eyes spilled over and now ran down her face. She was disappointing them again, as she seemingly had since stepping foot in the Guild.
"I'll do better," she whispered from a tight throat. "I swear it, I'll do better."
As far as hiding places went, Thancred could do better.
She found him tucked away in a corner with no company save a leather-wrapped ball, which he bounced soundly against a wall. Opposite of the wall stood a wrought-iron fence made of thick bars and curling filigree, the very same which circled the Crystarium at varying heights. This one separated the Pendants from the nearby gardens and, at present moment, served to prop up Thancred's disaffected slouch.
It was a good sign; if he wanted to disappear, he would have.
"Close game, but the wall might have this one." Fable called, aiming for playful. By his grunt and the pop of the ball from hand to wall, her quip missed its mark.
She tried again, sidling closer. She chose to lean against bricks rather than fence, knowing this way he might actually meet her eye.
"There must be more entertaining sport to be had beyond the city. Want to get out of here for a while? I'll cover for you."
"Can't. Nearly started a war the last time I took my eye off Minfilia. Were it not for your intervention—"
"And yours," Fable corrected before he could finish the thought, "and the Exarch's—"
Thancred caught the ball squarely in his palm and refrained from throwing it again. "Point being: I'd prefer to keep her in sight."
"Where is she, anyway?"
To this, he hooked his thumb over his shoulder, pointing toward the gardens beyond the gate. Sure enough, there she was — a flash of blonde hair bouncing with each racing step. Alphinaud was mere fulms ahead of her, scrambling for clearance while Alisaie did her best to block the path.
Fable chewed at her lip. When she spoke, it was with a small, earnest voice. "Fatherhood suits you."
Thancred scoffed on cue.
"Really, it does."
"In lieu of a better choice," he conceded.
"You sell yourself short. She thinks the world of you, we all do."
Thancred did not hang his head, but he did find some distant spot on the ground to stare at. Gravity did the rest, pulling his chin down until his hair cast a deep shadow across his eyes.
But she could still spy his mouth, which had sealed itself in a tight, grim line.
This, she knew, meant that particular subject was not to be broached further.
It worked in her favor. Thancred knew her better than anyone; were he not preoccupied — were he not in pain — he'd see everything she desperately concealed.
Emet-Selch. The lies. The betrayal of trust.
She swallowed down the guilt and then smiled in spite of herself.
"Alright... no jailbreak from the Crystarium, then. How about this: you let the twins continue their play with Minfilia and you let me buy you a drink at the bar."
His laugh cracked on the corners of his little enclave and for a moment it was almost believable, the way it echoed loud and bright. But when it faded, his face had hardly changed. His mouth could do no more than twist at the corner without conviction.
She pretended not to notice. "What's so funny?"
"You have the coin for that?"
"Ha! Just for that, you can by me a drink, Mr. Waters."
He waved a dismissive hand. "Buyer's choice as usual."
Fable wrinkled her nose imagining whatever vile concoction he had in mind. "Buyer's choice," she droned laboriously.
He tucked the ball away and turned to accompany her. Standing side-by-side, she jostled her shoulder into his and in turn, he knocked his elbow her way.
The mimicry of normalcy was welcome. It would not last.
"You're spending a lot of time away from the Crystarium," Thancred said, lowering his tankard. "What has you so occupied?"
"I promised a girl in Lakeland I'd show her some conjury." The lie came easy — one of a dozen she had rehearsed for this very moment. "She wants to be a mender and serve the people."
"Maybe Ryne and I will go with you sometime. She's mentioned wanting to learn what you and Urianger can do."
"Why wait?" Fable answered brightly, too eager for her own ears. If Thancred and Ryne followed her to Lakeland, she would have to make up another lie about a girl who doesn't exist — then she would have to tell yet another to slip away long enough to reach Kholusia. "I could show her this afternoon."
"Very well," he replied, wholly unsuspecting of her double life, "but first we get another round."
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