I MEANT IT.

low-activity, extremely selective fandaniel  /  hermes  /  amon ( + respective verses for each incarnation of this dude ) from ffxiv.

“Now why would I do that?” Hythlodaeus smiles as cat-like as ever and twirls a few locks of the hair that hangs loose over his shoulder around a finger. The spiked fashion of the Ascians hardly fits him, not as other robes once did, so he’s forsaken his own hood. “Rat you out when you’re following a dream— Oh, have you always thought me so cruel, Fandaniel?”

Such an odd title. It rolls of his tongue strangely, dry and brittle as bones older than this body he has made his own. Ambition is not a trait that Hythlodaeus has ever claimed for himself. He doesn’t waste time endearing himself to their Unsundered fellows —Truly, he’s below them all, though few care that he breathes at all—or spend his days weeping for the losses of years gone by. None of it would do him any good now. What does help him is his watching. However much time has changed, Fandaniel is still a book he enjoys dusting off to read. His disinterest in Rejoinings has been clear as day to Hythlodaeus’s eyes since the start.

“I wouldn’t bother with worry if I wasn’t right,” he scoffs. “What a waste that would be. Perhaps I am cruel, but I’m not a fool.” With another step closer to Fandaniel, he settles his feet as firmly as the sprawling roots of an ancient tree. Hythlodaeus tilts his head curiously. The brightness of his eyes rivals that of his original self / Shining like the insects that once glowed with levin in Elpis.  Perhaps the amiable tone to his voice is exaggerated, perhaps it is true. It’s near enough to the real thing to be mistaken as either. “I have no authority or Seat to bind you by, no obligation to enforce, remember? You do make me wonder, though, what manner of chaos might conflict with ours. Sate my curiosity, won’t you? If only in the hypothetical?” 

Fandaniel’s expression thins out like smoke and it occurs to him that Hythlodaeus is a weapon. It’s good that he has no interest in turning on him here and now even if in the future they might have to kill one another. But here and now in the dim light, those so7ul-seeing eyes shine brightly and more ominous than ever. Were it not for years of schooling the disgust out of his features, Amon, Fandaniel, whoever he is now, might shudder at this sight.

“No, you’re not a fool.”  Fandaniel has to acquiesce that much at least. He’s just -- tired of those eyes looking at him. When Hythlodaeus takes a step forward, it’s all he can do not to step back in exchange. It’s a miracle he manages to muster up a smile of his own in the presence of such danger.  “Sorry, but I’d hate to spoil the surprise...don’t you think it would be more fun to watch your beloved Emet-Selch scramble over himself in the presence of oncoming onslaught? He’s always hated not being able to account for every variable...I must confess, even the thought makes me want to announce a premature victory.”

“I do not know,”  Hermes’ voice is barely above that of a whisper,  “I wish I knew. Ah -- I wish I knew... ”  How badly his soul longs to have an answer for J’isu; and not just J’isu, but his companions on Elpis. People ask him so many questions, and Hermes feels the answers are never adequate for anyone, least of all him. He can logic his way out of things, push aside his misgivings with talk of duty and love and perfection, but this does nothing to quell the rising maelstrom in his heart. He speaks frankly of it with those who wish to share his heart, but even then he remains unsatisfied, desperate for something that seems ever out of reach.

He doesn’t know anything, so he just has to be miserable. He has become a tomb dedicated to the hallowed visage of his misery and nothing more. This beautiful, lovely, perfect world / on some days, Hermes wonders--and he is always ashamed of it when these thoughts bloom across his mind--what would happen if this world crumbled away? Would his fellow ancients still love their home even if it was ugly? Or would they abandon it in favor of perfection? AGAIN WITH THE QUESTIONS! Stop, Hermes, just stop -- it just hurts.

       𝐀 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐜𝐮𝐭𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐨𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐬  suffuses  the  structure  from  within.  Not  the  cold  of  an  everlasting  winter,  but  that  of  the  grave  reaching  to  claw  life  and  soul  both  from  the  misbegotten  wretches  to  have  come  so  far.  A  single  step  and  is  he  certain  that  he  has  descended  to  a  hell  deeper  than  any  of  the  seven  known  to  man,  his  very  breath  turning  as  blades  through  his  lungs.  At  his  breast,  dangling  from  the  leather  cord  that  he  keeps  beneath  his  armor  is  the  trembling  trinket  gifted  to  him  by  the  peoples  of  Thavnair.  For  how  it  rattles  with  such  violence  the  deeper  he  wanders  into  the  Tower  does  he  wonder  if  it  might  shatter  as  glass  beneath  the  vile  power  of  what  slumbers  within.  ‘Tis  only  in  the  power  that  rests  at  the  very  core  of  the  talisman  does  he  draw  some  measure  of  comfort,  for  he  carries  with  him  the  hopes  of  yet  one  of  the  First  Brood  and  he  would  not  fail  their  kind.  Not  again.  

               Just  how  he  would  deliver  the  poor  souls  from  the  clutches  of  this  abomination  he’d  not  considered.  For  his  gift  comes  in  destruction,  wrought  in  violence  and  bloodshed.  Foremost  predator  of  his  Order,  the  spear  forged  from  the  fires  of  rage  and  vengeance,  his  salvation  is  the  grace  and  mercy  of  a  quick  and  painless  death.  Thus  if  it  must  needs  come  to  such  a  conclusion,  would  his  be  the  hand  that  would  send  this  tower  crumbling  as  a  pillar  of  ash.  ‘Tis  only  a  matter  of  finding  the  core  similar  to  the  one  he’d  encountered  in  that  accursed  contraption  in  Thavnair.  

        Three  steps  within  and  espying  the  wretches  trapped  within  their  tombs  is  he  brought  to  a  halt  at  the  voice  that  rings  throughout  the  cavernous  hall.  Not  a  voice  he  knows  at  all,  but  by  the  words  alone  is  he  able  to  determine  the  source.  The  shadowed  half-creature  made  known  to  him  by  the  Warrior  of  Light.  He  growls,  sinking  into  stance  ready  for  attack  yet  all  that  surrounds  him  now  is  but  mocking  laughter.  What  good  is  a  weapon  with  naught  but  air  to  strike?   ❝ Show  yourself  and  you’ll  have  more  than  a  dagger  through  your  heart. ❞  His  threat  is  delivered  in  a  snarl,  teeth  bared  as  though  ready  to  bite  and  tear  through  the  very  bastard’s  neck.  Yet  he’ll  have  no  such  luck.  Cravens  such  as  these  are  wont  to  hide,  scurrying  about  as  vermin  in  the  dark.  Presented  with  one  such  obstacle  he  refuses  to  allow  himself  to  be  cowed,  even  in  the  heart  of  enemy  territory.  He  has  weathered  worse  afore,  faced  his  direst  foe  within  his  very  nest  and  emerged  victorious.  Thus  would  he  blaze  forward,  scoffing  at  the  cowardice  as  he  moves  deeper  within  the  tower.  He  knows  the  way  should  this  construction  of  terror  and  twisted  metal  be  like  to  the  Tower  of  Zot.   ❝ Mock  as  you  will,  Ascian.  I  mean  to  bring  this  toy  of  yours  to  ruin.  Thus  are  you  allowed  to  watch  as  I  do  so. ❞

“Oh, you are a frightening man!”  Fandaniel exclaims, grinning all the while, the sarcasm tangible in his voice. He’s not stupid, so he refuses to let Estinien bait him into the light, back pressed flush against one of the fleshy pillars. Concealing his presence is a laughably easy affair.

Fandaniel had foreseen that at least one of the Warrior of Light’s companions would come alone. The Scions and their pride / Fandaniel has been longing to twist it into despair for a long time. If even just one of these untouchable heroes could be corrupted at Fandaniel’s expert hands -- and he has a lot of experience in the art of corruption, call it one of his many talents -- well -- that fear would be all-encompassing. And such despair in the face of the Final Days would be fruitful. Overall it would be a victory for Fandaniel--both for his larger plan and for his personal gain.

So how fitting for fate’s chosen to be the dragoon Estinien Wyrmblood, who has already been felled once before by his ego and lonerisms.

The air around Fandaniel stagnates and flexes all at once, likely a result of the imbalance of aether while Estinien goes about blowing up the “toy” (aptly put, Fandaniel must admit). But if it’s just one of them, Fandaniel can use this strange aether to his advantage, and he still has a few tricks from his time spent as Amon up his sleeve. A hand reaches into the air, chain link of red suddenly materializing in place between his fist.

“You dragoons do so love jumping and dancing all over the battlefield,”  Fandaniel muses, eyeing the fetters curiously, dangerous smile playing over lips, the game only just beginning,  “It makes one wonder--how will you react when those wings of yours are clipped?”  All at once Fandaniel steps out from shadow. His hand shoots forward and with it a group of chains made from corrupted aether keen towards Estinien all at once -- capturing the dragoon would be the most difficult part of Fandaniel’s plan, but the pay-off, oh the pay-off! Fandaniel’s eyes gloss over at the thought, flashing a half-lidded smile in no general direction.

Inquiry begets immediate confession, to which the daze of half-slumber fizzles into something more attentive as Jahliqai trains his eye upon the man he knew as Hermes (here, and not in this foreign land he dreamed of – barren of sorrow). He chases away the remnant to give him his full undivided attention – an arm braced over his knee as Hermes speaks of his own plight. The confusion is plainly writ on his face, that Jahliqai’s own relaxes as they sit beside each other. It was shared – an understanding neither of them had. A low hum is offered when Hermes’s explanation (or lack, thereof) is given, and Jahliqai looks to the ground beneath them as a means to gather his thoughts. 

Here, the soil was trodden and well-worm – blades of grass smothered under the soles of feet who either fought or fleed the war-torn land as it were. Closing his eye, he recalls the blurs in his dreams – the hand that was not his own (one he knew all the same), and the lush of greenery that surrounded him. Beyond the life that thrived, and the face of former foe, of Hermes, of those he’s never seen in his life… Jahliqai, too, knew nothing of this place. Like the Hermes he knew here, now… he was left in the dark – only half-aware through forces outside of them both. Thus, Jahliqai opens his eye, and finds his words.

     “ If that’s the case, “ he murmurs – gaze still faraway, “ then there must have been a reason – to forget. “ Another pause, as he tastes the implications for what they were, before finally does realization strike Jahliqai. He turns, suddenly – frost bright with revelation. “ You’re an ancient. “ Ascian, absent from his tongue; Hermes has given his staff to them, and not his brethren – which now spurned new questions to his mind.

Pain blooms beneath his chest. Ancient, Ascian, synonyms for other -- he had never belonged in that dreamlike paradise, and for some reason when Jahliqai says the word Hermes remembers that he doesn’t belong here either. He swallows his dread, eyes sliding shut for a moment.  “Yes,”  he admits,  “although a powerless one in comparison to the ones you have met. I find that my magicks are severely limited. In a way I have also been...sundered.”  He pauses, then reaches beneath the dip of the cut of his shirt to tug at a cord, thus revealing a familiar spark of red: the Convocation crystal given to the seat of Fandaniel, the same Fandaniel who had been fought as Zodiark, the same Fandaniel who had been felled but cried victory in the advent of his death.

Hermes doesn’t understand why his soul would choose such a path. The Echo offers him shards of forgotten memory from a time in Elpis but it still isn’t enough -- the gaping hole in his chest yearns to be filled, still, still, still.  “Maybe there is a reason. But whatever pain I felt...it must have paled in comparison to his. I--,”  hate him / and myself / and I want to get better but without my pain who am I? /  “I just want to understand. All my life, I have had a very important question and I could not find the answers for it on Etheirys. I hope I can find it here. On Eorzea. And...if you would permit it--with you and your companions.”

There is a tendency towards toxicity — whether it’s a personal failing or the result of a life so littered with tragedy (  a child weaned on poison, after all, considers harm a comfort  ) aside, the fact remains that neither Ki’s disgust nor Aika’s lack of respect for Fandaniel are enough to keep her from giggling coquettishly and placing her hand in his.  As if this is a courtship they’re playing at, rather than discussing the last thoughts of the man that Fandaniel — evicted, as it were, from this form.

“Oh, I can handle dangerous boys,” she replies — it’s even true! — while Ki pretends to gag.  His hand feels — well, it doesn’t matter for now, large eyes fluttering closed to listen for any traces of the body’s previous inhabitant.  Even Ki presses closer to their skin, seeing if the dead might have an easier time with the dead.  After a beat, Aika’s lips twist into a pout, eyes drawing open.  “It’s less direct thoughts, but — well, he was definitely angry.”  Hateful, Ki supplies, angry isn’t sharp enough.  “Not helpful, I know.  Also, the toxic gay man vibes are off the charts.  And distinct from — whatever’s going on with you.”

Once upon a time Fandaniel probably would have winced at the feeling of hands on borrowed flesh - a body unrecognizable as his own apart from the undeniable fact that when when he moved in front of a mirror it moved with him. He schools this instinct into nothingness, a blankness on his expression instead while Aika feels for that sense of Asahi beneath the surface layer of his skin.

“Oh, right again! Ah, well, I’m not sure about the gay part.”  He’d never met the vessel in life, but it was more than probable. Again with the looking in mirrors. Now this body was a twink if he’d ever seen one!  “I am glad to know that his essence differs from mine. I would hate for my self to get mixed up with someone like him. From what I heard, he was...ah--thoroughly unpleasant.”  Not that Fandaniel is any better, he knows this, but he supposes his flavor of ‘unpleasant’ is vastly different from Asahi’s.