That Which We Have Seen & Heard

Lies! Nothing but a pack of lies! 

Even as he thought the words, he knew that it was not so—could not be so. Had he not made himself perfectly clear when warning that, as a member of the Convocation, he could easily distinguish between honesty and falsehood? Unfortunately, he could find no evidence of deceit in the prodigal familiar’s tale of their star. He had spent the evening repose mulling over this account of the so-called Final Days, and found that when given the opportunity, she had chosen to conceal her identity through half-truths and omission rather than brazen lies.

And yet for her to speak of their demise so calmly! It was horrific enough to envision the Final Days of Etheirys, the summoning of Zodiark and the subsequent Sundering. But to hear tell of their battle, of his death—

Death. The term itself was both an insult and an omen, usually reserved for cases when a soul’s return to the star was not governed by personal choice. To be forcibly consigned to the Underworld was a punishment reserved for only the most extreme circumstances, when all other methods of correction had failed. Most were so averse to the thought that they purposefully distanced themselves from such distasteful terminology; it had surprised him to hear the word used so freely by Hermes’s little pet project.

But to hear the same from her! She, who looked so uncannily like Azem, whose soul fairly shone with the same warmth, the same joyous amber glow, and yet something about her was so very wrong— It was contemptuous! It was beyond reproach! It was… it was….

It was simply too much to bear.

He stared at his reflection in the looking glass, searching his pale eyes for… for what? For that first hint of madness? For the spark that proved himself capable of the unspeakable? The sacrifice of one half the population to save Etheirys. Another, equal portion to maintain the aetherial balance. An ingenious plan, though madness in and of itself.

Still, the idea of their noble sacrifice filled him with an unshakable pride. The very foundation of their society was built upon the idea that one must give their all to the betterment of the star. To end oneself so that others may endure… what better way to burn through the candle of a life? What better way to find fulfilment? Had he not been a member of the Convocation, he would have most certainly volunteered himself to be one of their number.

And to think that he was the villain in her tale! Mankind’s judge, jury, and would-be executioner! It made no logical sense: why would he insist that he alone was worthy to decide the fate of a star and its people? That was laughable at best. Furthermore, it was in direct opposition to the principles of society. No one in their right mind would ever believe in such a self-centered notion.

Singularity is selfishness. Individuality, indulgence. Simplistic in their nature, they were concepts that even the smallest of children could easily grasp. Everyone, hand in hand, working together for the greater good. Each and every choice weighed accordingly against its own outcome, the needs of the collect put above the needs of the individual. This was the proper way of things. He could not believe that he would ever find reason enough to throw these guiding principles aside in favor of egotistical arrogance.

Even more insulting was the accusation that he had worked in direct opposition to Venat. While it was true that the former Shepherd annoyed him to no end with her antics, it did not change the fact that Venat was a retired official who served as an advisor to the people, a purveyor of wisdom. He would no sooner raise a hand in anger against an elder than he would a child. What did they take him for? An uncultured fool?

“I do not understand it,” he muttered, hearing the irritable edge to his voice. The evening repose was meant to be a time of reflection, of preparation for the coming day ahead. It was far past time to retire; at the moment, however, sleep would be all but impossible. Not with all these thoughts whirling in an endless vortex inside his mind. “Why must we fall?” His reflection did not answer, its expression one of perturbed curiosity. Thirsting for answers, desperate to know.

He gazed blankly at himself in the mirror, noting the traits that seemed ever-present: the frizzy, tangled locks of loose hair, the weary bags beneath his sharp eyes, the downward slope of his full lips. No matter what his compeers claimed, he was not handsome. Nor did he care to flatter himself with thoughts of unconventional beauty, having no taste for false vanity. He did not think himself hideous, of course, but his visage was nowhere near the ethereal prettiness that Hythlodaeus wore so well. Neither did he have Azem’s rugged, innocent charm. His appeal—if indeed he possessed any—lay in his talents as a wielder of magic.

Was this the reason his future self found it so easy to walk the tattered fringes of insanity? He was naught but one corner of a precariously balanced three-sided scale. Remove any one of the weights, and the others would invariably come crashing down. If this would-be familiar spoke true, then both Hythlodaeus and Azem would slip through his fingers before he had time to tighten his grasp. This thought frightened him more than that of his own fall from grace.

The fear made him want to demand Azem’s hasty return, even as he seethed with anger over the rumors of her stunt with Ifrita. It made him want to insist that Hythlodaeus not stray from sight during their sojourn in Elpis, determined as he was to ensure his continued safety. He wanted one hand on either of them at all times, if only to reassure himself that they were at his side. For if they were not…

Alone for a thousand, thousand lives.

He did not think he could bear such a fate.

“Hello!” Without warning, the door to his borrowed chamber flew open. “Are you still awake, Hades? Good!” Hythlodaeus let himself in, bringing with him a cool breeze that smelled faintly of the expansive gardens surrounding the Twelve Wonders. He shivered theatrically, practically flinging himself onto the airing bed and drawing the coverlet to his chin. “These stone floors are so cold,” he lamented, “and the rugs are few and far between. But, as I expected, your bedsheets are warmer than mine.”

“Nonsense,” he grumbled, glaring at him through the mirror. “They’re the same as the ones in your chamber. If you’ve a problem with them, ask for something thicker. Or, better yet, save everyone the trouble and conceptualize them yourself.”

“No, I’m sure yours are warmer!” Hythlodaeus cozied deeper into the bed. “I do believe I’ll remain here. Feel free to take my room in exchange… unless, of course, you won’t mind the intrusion.”

“I very much mind the intrusion!” he snapped. “Enough with the pretense. If you want a bedfellow, then say it plainly. There’s no need for theatrics.”

“Oh?” Hythlodaeus turned into his side, propping his head on one arm. His unbound hair fell in long, smooth strands across his shoulder. “And are you willing to accept me? Or will you give me an earful tomorrow morning and say the beds were clearly not built for two? Ah—but you aren’t ready for bed yet, are you? You haven’t even brushed the tangles from your hair,” he scolded gently. He climbed from the bed, wrapping the coverlet around his shoulders before padding across the floor. “Here, allow me. Where is your comb?”

“I don’t recall asking for help.” Despite his grousing, he handed over the comb without a struggle, crossing his arms in a sullen pout as he watched their reflections. Hythlodaeus parted his unruly hair down the center, gently combing out the tangles with smooth, even strokes. He ran his fingers through each section, methodically checking the strands before allowing them to fall.

Does nothing faze him? he wondered, slowly relaxing under his partner’s gentle ministration. He had always enjoyed the tactile sensation of fingers carding through his hair, as well as the shared intimacy of being close to another being. It was a perfect task for someone like Hythlodaeus, who did not enjoy physical attention and seldom wished for reciprocation from either of his partners. Instead, his joy came from fawning over them with a gusto that—while at times suffocating—was strangely heartwarming.

Oftentimes he worried that Hythlodaeus pushed himself harder than necessary to compensate for the lack of certain intimacies. However, he had no real way of knowing if this was indeed the case. To read the flow of his aether would be an invasion of privacy, and to ask outright would be an invitation for self-depreciation: another of his many specialties, often in the guise of genuine modesty.

To give and take in equal share…. Of course, there was no need for such trivialities between them. Hythlodaeus was his daily companion, and Azem looked after them both when she was not too busy getting herself into trouble. Between the two of them, he was left drowning in a veritable torrent of affection.

If anyone should feel the need to compensate, it was him. He still did not understand what, exactly, he brought to their three-sided union. It was well known throughout Amaurot that, between their energies and their status, the two had been perfectly paired. What on earth had possessed them to entreat him, of all people, that he might join their partnership? He was ever grateful, of course; when they were near, his heart felt… complete, somehow, in a way that could not easily be explained. It was something he could not achieve on his own. And yet, what did he offer in return? What did he supply that no one else could?

“Today was rather… overwhelming. Would you not agree?” Hythlodaeus combed the hair from his temples, smoothing them with the tips of his elegant fingers. He looked up from his reflection to find himself being studied, the calm lilac gaze at once both curious and knowing. “I find myself having a hard time processing it.”

“If this is an attempt to draw me out, it’s a poor one,” he replied grumpily. “I’ve no intention to speak on it.”

“I wish you would, though. I hardly know what to think of it myself.” Hythlodaeus sighed. “I should like to hear your opinion on the matter.”

“I have none.”

“Is that right? You seemed to have quite a few, with the way you stormed out of the impromptu meeting.” He returned to his task, this time combing in long, smooth strokes from scalp to ends. “You didn’t even finish your cup of tea. That borders rudeness, even for you.”

“Rude?! You say I was rude?!” he growled, turning suddenly in the chair. The motion accidentally yanked out a few strands of hair in the comb. He winced, rubbing the back of his head with a scowl. “What was I meant to do? Sit idly by while that… that creature called me a madman? Furthermore,” he spat as Hythlodaeus tried to speak, “she spoke of cold-blooded murder!” He felt a cruel streak of satisfaction at the sight of his partner’s involuntary flinch.

“Murder,” he repeated for emphasis. “She claimed that she would one day kill me in order to save her dying fragment of a star. Pathetic, crawling… barely any aether to spare, can’t even manifest herself properly, and yet she would be the one to—” He lapsed into painful silence, overcome by his own conflicting emotions.

Hythlodaeus made no effort to respond immediately, his eyes focused on the soft locks of hair slipping through his fingers. It seemed an age before he felt calm enough to settle back into the chair, shoulders slumping as he let out an angry breath through his nose.

“She must indeed be a part of our own dear Azem. Who else would be able to get such a rise out of you?” Hythlodaeus finally answered, a wry smile lifting the corner of his mouth. “And, if anyone could muster up the determination and willpower to fight against a sorcerer of your caliber—and at such a disadvantage—who else would it be, if not her?”

“I’ve already said that I don’t wish to speak of it. Nor have I any intentions of indulging you further tonight.”

“I see.” Hythlodaeus carefully placed the comb on the boudoir’s smooth wooden surface. “Shall I make an observation? Entirely unbiased, of course.”

“I’d rather you not.”

“You seem upset at the thought of Azem’s sundering. Is it not so?” He tilted his head, one hand thoughtfully poised on his chin. “I believe I can understand that, after a fashion. Supposing the trajectory of our timelines do not change, I will inevitably be sacrificed to summon Zodiark. My soul will be spared that fate. But not hers…” he mused.

He did not reply, allowing Hythlodaeus to become lost in the winding maze of his own unfathomable mind. The breeze rustled through the gardens, stirring the blossoming shrubs and whispering faintly in the distant trees. The walls of their temporary abode creaked as though the building itself was a living entity, settling in for the night.

“Regardless,” he surmised after a moment, “I’d say she’s doing quite well for herself, despite the clear disadvantages of her current state. You yourself called her the spitting image of—”

“And I was wrong, wasn’t it?!” He felt his bile rising alongside the anger that boiled in his chest. “Look at her!” he hissed. “Her skin is the wrong shade, her hair too coarse, her aether thin and feeble. Did you notice her eyes? How dull and empty they seem, compared to our own? And that hideous mark on her face! What sort of repugnant, malformed creatures cannot heal themselves of even the most superficial wounds?! I hate to imagine them! I despise the very thought of them! They are… they are…!”

“Hades—”

“What happened to them!?” he choked, hands clutched into fists on his thighs. “What did this Hydaelyn do to them? To us? To her?!”

“Calm yourself. Naught in life is undertaken without purpose,” Hythlodaeus murmured the mantra soothingly, one hand on his shoulder. “If what we have been told is true, then we must trust that Venat had as much reason to sunder the world as you did to prevent it—yes, you!” he laughed, catching the incredulous expression on his face. “If Azem were here right now, she would not mourn her fate. Nor would she condemn her sundered counterpart. If anything, they would be in Venat’s bedchamber as we speak, the three of them swapping tales of daring-do over a steaming cup of tea.”

“Don’t even pretend to mention something like that to me,” he huffed. “One Azem is plenty—two, a handful. Three Azems in the same room would be entirely insufferable. I’d sooner tear my hair out than try to reason with any of them.”

“That I can believe!” Hythlodaeus laughed. “But you know that I’m right. I fact, I think that in this case, Azem and I would be of one mind… as we often are, when it pertains to our beloved Emet-Selch.”

“And just what mind is that, pray tell?!”

“That our sympathies, and our pain… it is reserved for you.” He smiled sadly. “I know mine are.” The words were a painful shock to his body, centered on the chamber that housed his heart. He pushed the hand from his shoulder, turning his face so that it could not be spied as easily in the mirror.

“I don’t recall asking for your pity.”

“It’s not pity, Hades! It’s love, and worry, and… and everything you feel each time Azem goes tumbling off another cliff in search of adventure.” He sighed. “The thought of your undertaking such a monumental burden alone pains me beyond words. Well, alone save for Elidibus and Lahabrea, and we all know what a tremendous joy he can be—”

“This is not the time for jokes!”

“Sorry! My apologies!” He lifted his hands defensively. “I was only trying to get a smile out of you, since you won’t tell me your thoughts. Or perhaps I should find Azem’s shard in this labyrinth of corridors?” he offered. “She has a remarkable talent for making one want to spill their innermost secrets. In fact: earlier today, when you were busy aiding the creature in flight—”

“I do not care, Hythlodaeus. In fact, I am ready to retire for the evening.”

“All the same,” he said, obliging as ever as he followed him to the comfortable bed. Even after he was safe beneath the—admittedly warm—sheets, the lamps extinguished, his partner at his side, he still did not close his eyes immediately. In its own way, the room’s permeating darkness was somehow freeing. It allowed him to view the thoughts he would rather keep hidden from the light of day.

“Do you think—” He interrupted himself with a sigh. By speaking, he knew that he was giving Hythlodaeus what he’d wanted all along.

“Go on.” A hand found his beneath the sheets, cool fingers intertwining with his own.

“Although the thought of these sundered beings repulses me to my core, I find it hard to believe I could ever be so intentionally cruel towards another living creature. Logically, if the future Emet-Selch is capable of such unrestrained malice, then I too am capable of it. I have always been capable of it. I must have that capacity in some measure, even if I do not act on it.”

“Don’t we all?” Hythlodaeus replied softly. “Mankind is ever capricious. Light and darkness exist in delicate balance; is that not the reason we appoint an Emissary? To maintain this equilibrium?”

“Yes, but… if I have known, all this time… if I was warned, then why—”

“Who can say? With each decision we make, each path we choose, another branch forms in the river of time. We have not yet reached its apex… perhaps we never will. Then again, perhaps we might.” There was a rustle of bedclothes as he turned over in the dark. Lips fluttered against his skin, a fleeting kiss pressed to the rise of his cheek. “Sleep now, dear Hades. Tomorrow is not yet written.”

“Hmph.” He remained awake, listening as his bedfellow’s breathing eased into slumber. Through the thin curtains, clouds billowed towards the horizon. The eternal winds swept through the tall grass, dancing petals swirling higher and higher in the breeze. Just beyond view, higher than the window, the refreshing waters of Lethe cascaded towards the earth, nourishing and endless bounty. And somewhere, even higher than that, the stars in the firmament twinkled with distant promise.

He lay in the darkness and thought of familiars and shooting stars, rising birds and falling souls. He thought of faulty creatures and bottomless despair. He thought of a man racked with pain beyond fathom, and another doomed to the same. He thought of Azem and wondered, fleetingly, if she thought of him too.

Beyond reach, beyond time, the swirling currents of the aetherial sea washed him clean. He lay in the darkness, his partner beside him, and he thought of those things which had come to pass, and of those things which must still come to pass. He thought of them, and wondered, until the gentle seas carried him into the quiet night.