hello , welcome home

It’s not that he really wants to catch her.

It’s simply that he happens to be the closest person to her in the moment, so it is merely...convenience.

At first, Emet-Selch had assumed she had merely lost her footing amongst the roots of the twining trees in Rak’tika, though even with this assessment he’d vaguely wondered why she’d simply fall instead of righting herself. But no, her eyes are quite neatly shut, her pale face ashen where it lays in the crook of his arm.

-- How awkward.

The white-haired man in her company bristles, one hand going to his gunblade.

“I swear, if you -- ”

“I’m doing nothing of the sort,” Emet-Selch interjects boredly, his gaze flicking from Arianna to him. “Really, must you be so judgmental of everything I do? I could have simply let her fall, you know.”

He could have, indeed. Perhaps he even should have. He could even just shove her off right now --

Though for some reason, he doesn’t particularly feel the urge to.

He’s more conc -- interested in what could have made her fall into a dead faint. Is it the light rippling through her soul, stretching and twisting like an insidious disease? Or is it the dark circles beneath the woman’s eyes, no doubt nights of poring over those silly books of hers? A combination of them?

She is so very light and easy to hold, he almost thinks he likes to hold her. But that is only because --

Ah, yes, as her eyelids begin to flutter and open, he knows precisely why this entertains him so.

The Warrior of Light’s green eyes slowly open, glazed and confused as first they focus upon the stretching branches of a far less captivating hue above them. Then she notices him, her gaze catching his, though she does not quite understand what it is she looks at.

Despite himself, he feels the corner of his mouth quirking upwards, as almost childlike anticipation takes hold of him.

“Have sweet dreams, hero?” he queries pleasantly. As if to make a point, he shifts his arm beneath her just barely, his fingers squeezing slightly at her arm so she might come to realise her predicament.

And it is just as good as he’d hoped.

With a startled, strangled gasp, she all but flies from him. He has the pleasure of seeing her face explode with redness as a full-force blush takes her. He backs away several steps, lifting his arms up oh so innocently.

The miqo’te sorceress brushes at the dark-haired woman’s sleeve as if the spot he had touched would mould over.

“You may want to change later, Arianna,” she murmurs quietly, her sightless eyes narrowing at him from over the woman’s shoulders. Arianna, for her part, does not even deign to look at him, her back to him as she brushes thin fingers nervously through her hair.

Well, no matter. He’s gotten all he wants for the moment.

“Come now,” he intones, waving a pristine glove. “Do you mean to imply my clothes are unclean? How uncouth. I am offended.” 

Creating living things has never been one of Hades’ fortes. There’s too many sticky details to get caught and entangled in -- an errant thought away from a miserable accident. At least buildings and the inanimate cannot feel or think. It’s much easier, much cleaner to fix a mistake in architecture.

Leave the new life to those with a passion for it.

Like Persephone. She is always bringing him new concepts, letters so gleeful and colourful as to make him feel dizzy with the animation with which she speaks. And of course, he is never too busy to listen to her excitedly chatter across the bond, detailing a brand new creature that may never see the light of day, simply to exist as a concept in limbo. But it still gave her joy to think of it.

Albeit today, she has been -- perhaps oddly quiet. Typically she will check in on him intermittently throughout the day, a welcome respite from his duties. But today...the bond, her presence has been silent. He has not even seen her glow through the windows of his room at the bureau. It almost makes him want to pull at their link and ask if something is the matter, but the thought of disturbing her makes him pause.

All the better for it, perhaps, for suddenly he hears his name floating across from from voice he is so fond of.

“Hades! Where are you? I have something to show you!”

Despite himself, and despite not even seeing her, engrossed in the glow of his small buildings, the miniature of Amaurot, he can feel his lips curve at the delight that conveys itself through her telepathic speech.

“In my office. What is it?”

Instead of replying, the bond goes silent once more. The door opens a few minutes later, the woman gliding into the room with quick steps, a pot clutched in her hands. A pot -- of flowers, a kind he has never before seen.

But he has not ever been as enamoured with plants as her. Perhaps it is simply one he has not laid eyes upon.

“I -- I made these! Thinking...of you.” The smile that spreads across her face is bright enough to rival that of the sun. For a moment, Hades does not understand her words.

She -- made them? Thinking about him?

That sensation that so oft makes itself known around her settles in his chest. He does not dislike it. But it makes his throat tighten and his eyes burn as he glances from her to the pot of flowers she now gently places upon the corner of his desk.

Does she mean to imply these have never existed before -- until she had formed them out of nothing? And thought of him, whilst doing so? A living plant created from her...thoughts of him?

Swallowing, Hades looks toward the flowers more carefully. Delicate purple and white blossoms sprawl across a thick and strong-looking stalk of green. When he leans in, he can smell something that -- oddly reminds him of chocolate.

“And -- and I can make different colours, as well!” Persephone lightly trails a thin finger along the rim of the plant’s pot. “With a different scent, if it pleases you. But -- I thought...hoped, you might like this one, too.”

Still wordless and voiceless, he lifts a hand to touch one of the thick petals. The entire plant quivers like a creature with life.

A living organism.

“I -- I adore it. As I do you.”

It is still difficult to look at her, for some reason, but he doesn’t need to meet her gaze when she draws close to him and wraps her arms about him gently.

________

Narrowing his eyes, Hades all but glares at the pot in front of him as he wracks his mind, trying to think back to his Akadaemia years. He had made so many...things. Mostly with Persephone, of course...

But still. At least part of those projects had been his. So...there should be nothing different about...making this.

“Why are you making a plant, Hades?” Hyth asks from somewhere behind him as he pops a grape in his mouth. “Never pegged you as the sort to be interested in that.”

“...For Persephone.”

“Ah, well...good luck with that.” His “best friend” gives a mild guffaw. Hades feels one of his eyebrows twitch, but decides not to mention it. “Why not just give her a pretty pot of those ones?” He doubtlessly gestures toward an already potted plant, but Hades shakes his head.

“She made me...flowers. So -- I would like to do the same.”

He’d hoped that being in the gardens would help...ground him, that seeing the other flowers would prime him to create something...just as she had. Though -- it’s not just as simple as thinking about making a plant, which in itself is not truly that simple at all. He also has to think about her...her voice, her scent, the way her hand feels in his, their flesh pressed together, their hours upon hours of discussing and theorising in their rooms, the very way she seems to seep peace into the room...

Closing his eyes, he draws his hands together above the soil of his pot, pouring magic into the sediment. Feeling something beginning to brush at his fingers, he moves his hands aside, but continues to try to create, wishing beyond all that what he makes will be able to show her his love for her, just as the beauty of those flowers she had gifted him show him hers.

When he opens his eyes, heart full of hope, he feels it crashing to the ground instantly upon seeing what he’s managed to make.

The flower is large, certainly, and bright and vibrant. But it is not very flowerlike at all. Its petals are sharp and mechanical, like the harsh edges of a building sketch. It’s not at all like the elegant blossoms Persephone had gifted him. It’s...cold.

He hears Hythlodaeus shambling up near him, peering at his creation with a tilted head.

“...It’s sharp and edged, just like you.”

His jaw clenches, knowing it to be true, yet not wanting to hear it. “I didn’t ask for your opinion, Hyth. Why are you here, anyway?”

“Ah...” He clears his throat, rubs a hand at the back of his hood. “Petri wanted to look at some of the flowers.”

Hades glances up for a moment, watching another cloaked figure in a purple hue as they look up at one tall, red, flowering plant.

“Why are you bothering me, then? Shoo.”

“I was curious...!”

________

Hades does not want her pity.

He’s almost certain she will say she likes it even if that emotion does not truly bud in her chest. A poor attempt at something in kind for her -- she is the sort of person who would accept it even as she looks it to be something lesser.

Yet all his other attempts had gone even more poorly than this first one. He understands now why she must have been so silent and unresponsive that day. How many tries had it taken her to make something she was satisfied with?

-- One? Since she had said she had experimented with colours and aromas...that had to mean she had been satisfied with the general blueprint of her creation from the very first...

His stomach feels heavy with stones. He almost doesn’t notice that he has stopped in front of her office. He’d entirely forgotten to ask her if she was even here, too --

But she is. He knows from the hue --

Swallowing, he opens the door to find her seated demurely in her workspace, at work on yet another concept, he’s sure. She looks up at him with concerned green eyes, perhaps already having sensed his discomfort across their link. He’s prepared for her pity.

“I -- thought of you when I made these, Persephone.” He holds out the pot for her to take.

Her wonder nearly takes him over all else. Her fingers brush his faintly as she reverently takes the pot from him, wordlessly gazing at the plant.

There’s no pity or sorrow, only pure, unadulterated joy, an underlying feeling of shock and awe. When she places the pot down and throws her arms ‘round his neck, he nearly stumbles back as he embraces her in turn.

She buries her face against his neck, the chill of her mask almost disguising the feeling of her tears dropping against his skin as her arms tighten around him.

Kismet’s day.

A day red strings stream from the high, dark spires, hang low enough between the trees to swipe one’s hood off of one’s head if one isn’t careful walking beneath them.

To Hades, it is nothing more than an irritating annoyance, simply waiting to cause mishap and vexation. Red string of fate? Complete and utter nonsense.

He has always held a general dislike for the day, or maybe simply a disinclination to believe it could ever apply to him. Hythlodaeus would scoff at him now, knowing the affection he held for Persephone. He’s already hinted before he finds it an utmost pity that Hades simply refuses to engage in the tradition with the woman.

“I’d be offended, if I were her.” “There is no point in frightening her off, Hyth. How are things going on with Petri?”

That is only partially the truth. Of course he’s concerned about scaring her with the very implication of celebrating the day with her. It’s almost as good as a proposal of eternal bonds. It’s not something to do with simply anyone.

Not that Persephone is “anyone”.

The other reason is that he simply...

Does not wish to see her push him away.

He knows the hue of her soul better than his own, but to say he understands the inner workings of her mind would be a lie. He doesn’t want to think he’s wrong, or that he’s been mislead, or allowed himself to be mislead...

But avoiding the truth is far easier than finding out for himself what she truly thinks.

So he simply wallows in completely avoiding the day, the legend, all that blasted red -- even her, if he has to. Thus far, this plan has never failed him.

Until today.

He’s alone in his office when the door opens abruptly. He doesn’t have to look up to know who it is -- the glow of her soul is enough, and already he can feel a faint sheen of sweat building up at the back of his neck. Had Hyth told her where he was holing himself up this time?

“Hades!” Persephone drifts toward him once the door is shut, her sweet voice echoing gently through the room. She wouldn’t speak like this if anyone else had been here. Perhaps he should have scheduled some sort of appointment if only to have an excuse to be busy.

“Persephone,” he greets with an anxiety he doesn’t want to feel. He’s passed his school age ridiculousness of feeling nervous of any little thing he does around her. This is any normal day. It should be any normal day. There’s nothing strange about today. Yes, if he just repeats this to himself -- 

“How are you doing today? It is Kismet’s day, have you heard?”

He swallows, jaw clenching, as a gnawing pit appears in his stomach.

“Yes. I have. Heard.”

Her hands clap together, sleeves rustling slightly as she perches upon the corner of her desk delicately. On one of her shoulders sits a ball of pink fluff; it blinks enormous eyes at him owlishly, before turning away to nuzzle its face into the collar of Persephone’s robes.

“I think it is such a charming day. Very romantic.” Any other day, and he might have admired the way her soul seems to flair and gleam with her words. As it is, the sinking pit in his stomach merely deepens.

Does he expect her to say she’s to spend the day with someone else? But that is ridiculous. There is no red string about her finger. And why would she...? 

Not once have Persephone’s eyes left his as she speaks, no matter how much Hades wishes to look away. Or wishes that she would? He’s not entirely sure. He clears his throat.

“I suppose.” He manages to give a small shrug. “I’m not especially interested in Kismet’s day. As you know.”

Despite the cowl and mask that obscure most of her facial features from him, he thinks he can sense a flash of hurt in the woman’s eyes. For a moment, the sick feeling nearly makes him want to vomit --

But why would she be upset by such a thing? He has not exactly kept his disdain of the day secret...even if he’s tried to avoid her for the most part. Surely Hyth must have told her, as well.

Persephone’s shoulders hunch slightly; her fingers grasp the edge of the desk tightly, and it nearly looks as if she’s about to leave. The very colours of her soul dim --

And then, suddenly, she sits up with renewed determination, digging a hand into her pocket.

“T-the story goes,” she starts, still not looking at him, “that Ariadne and Theseus were lovers separated by stars and sea, only able to meet once a year when the tides lowered enough for them to be able to walk across the sands and embrace one another.”

He’s heard this story -- and variations of it -- more times than he can count. It is a favourite tale to recite on Kismet’s day. But telling it seems to give her some form of courage, which he hopes to siphon from her, so he does not interrupt.

“Ariadne was a weaver, and one day she had an idea to weave a magical red string, called a moira.” She plays with something hidden from his sight in the palms of her hands, worrying at it with her fingers.

“When next she was able to meet Theseus, she tied one end of the string to one of his fingers, and one end of the string to hers. The powers of her magic were so great that the string could stretch forever and on into eternity, no matter how far apart they were -- and with his combined magic, they could both find one another wherever they were. There was no longer any reason for them to be separated ever again.”

Persephone finally looks up to smile at him somewhat shyly, pleased with her rendition of the tale.

It is such a ridiculous story. Why did they not simply use such a perfect and simple solution before? Why did they wait through years of anguish before ever realising that they could combine their abilities and be together? Why could they not simply move together -- what in this world would ever compel them to be separated by “sea and stars”?

But knowing how she enjoys it, he bites his tongue.

“A charming story,” is what he says instead, though the words taste no better than ash. The glimmer of her soul is a paltry reward as her smile widens and she ducks her head to peer at her palms again.

A glimmer of red as she finally lifts it for him to see. His stomach sinks somewhere into a void beneath his chair, never to return.

“I-I have brought some moira to-d-day.” Her voice is suddenly clipped and mechanical; he’s not certain, but her face looks somewhat more ashy than before. Though surely he must not be looking any better. His throat refuses to work, like a dead circuit.

Her fingers grasp gently at his left hand, pulling it toward her. He’s powerless to stop her, or maybe he wants to be, or maybe he doesn’t know. Delicately, clumsily, she ties one end of the red string bundled in her palms to one of his fingers. Then, with trepidation, she ties the other end to one of her own fingers on her left hand.

“S-so...that we may always find each other...Hades.”

Whatever bravado she’d had earlier while telling him the story is long gone. Replacing it is a girlish apprehension as she anticipates his -- what? Rejection? Refusal? Mockery?

-- She’d been as frightened of this as him?

And yet she had still been the one to...

He almost wants to laugh, but he’s not capable of making a sound.

Instead, he stares at the red string connecting them -- the one that goes from his finger, to hers, a mass of it seeping to the floor where it lies, coiled, waiting to be used.

Because wherever they go, they will always find each other...like this. To think that she would want...

It is just a stupid day, with a stupid story, and a ridiculous bit of string, but for some reason he has to steel himself against the sudden onslaught of emotions railing in his chest. For once, he’s thankful to wear the robe and mask in this room, for if his face were naked in front of her now, he is fearful she would be bale to see just how weak he feels.

He merely clenches his jaw as he tries very hard not to -- 

“H-Hades?” His silence has gone on for too long, and she’s mistaken his rigidity as rejection. “I-I am -- s-sorry -- I -- ”

Though he’d felt sick at the mere implication of the string earlier, now her reaching to prise it from his hand makes him feel even more ill. He catches her hand between his own, like a butterfly, shaking his head wordlessly.

“ -- No. That is...no.” Finally, he manages to speak, a deep breath leaving him. “No. That is not -- that isn’t...it’s. Fine.”

He’s talking like an imbecile. He should simply shut up.

“It’s...f-fine...?” she repeats uncertainly. He can’t muster the strength to look her in the eye. Instead, he gives her a small nod, gaze transfixed on her hand cupped between his.

It’s ridiculous. They’ve touched like this before, too.

But never with a red string...

His palms clasp tighter around hers as he finally manages to lift his head to meet her concerned gaze.

“ -- I will always find you, Persephone.”

She is one of Arianna’s past lives

Not Garlean born; she was brought to Garlemald as a slave

She met Solus when he was still merely a legatus

Eventually they married once he became emperor

However she tragically died in the midst of his tenure