“D-Darling,” Aymeric all but whimpers as you find yourself in his lap, hands snaking in his hair to pull him in for another kiss.

Despite the protest in his voice, it’s half-hearted at best as his hands remain planted firmly on your hips. One look at his face confirms this suspicion, his eyes slipped shut as his mouth splits open, a soft groan spilling forth. It isn’t often you’re afforded a moment long enough to spare away to Ishgard, let alone one that coincides with a gap in Aymeric’s schedule as well. You’d be a fool not to spend it beside him, or, better, on top of him. Your lips fall onto his naturally, and it is he who takes the invitation to slide his tongue between them, desperate to taste you. Between your thighs, you can feel him growing hot and heavy as you slot your core over him.

A man so long repressed, Aymeric is alluringly eager to accept every ounce of pleasure you bestow upon him. So gracious to not only save himself and his country, the very notion that you felt the same way about him had ignited within him a want so strong it all but consumes him. All you’ve done is kiss him and laid yourself a top of him, but it’s more than enough to make him breathless and handsy. You feel them now, unrestrained finally from his cumbersome gloves and calloused from years of wielding a great sword. They ghost up the curve of your sides, squeezing at the softness of your love handles before continuing their track upward, stopping just beneath the swell of your breast and groping there.

His kiss is hot and feverish, one he only breaks to take in a lungful of air. The sight of him is more than enough to send a wave of moisture to soaked underwear. His cheeks are flushed a soft pink, his eyes so heavily lidded he looks almost tired if not for the rapid rise and fall of his chest and glossy, plump lips. You move your hips experimentally, delighting in the way his eyes flutter shut almost instantly and he releases a soft, unrestrained groan that reverberates deep within his chest.

“My dear Warrior,” he pants out, fighting to collect himself despite the way his hips lift subconsciously, seeking more friction, “might you have pity on me yet?”

“Mhm,” you purr, threading your fingers into his hair as he brings his face to your chest, “but where would the fun be in that?”

Aymeric hums some noise of agreement, content to suffer in his pleasurable torture as he lays open mouthed, wet kisses against the swell of your chest that’s uncovered. He might try to protest, but truthfully there’s no greater fantasy to him than being taken by the Warrior. To be used as a conduit for your pleasure alone had more than fueled him on several sleepless nights, when the persistent throbbing between his thighs refused to wane. He’s being a curd just to shove his face between your breasts now, and surely once this lust has passed him he’ll feel the inevitable shame, but even Halone herself could not make him part from you now.

“Can I?”

You let out a breathless chuckle as you feel his fingers ghost around the hemline of your chemise, eager to go forth but unwilling without your explicit permission. Instead you let your fingers wrap around the chains on your neck that keep the garment in place, lifting them from your head as the chest piece falls away, leaving you bare. You move your hips atop his again, moaning softly as you feel him perfectly through the layers of clothes, throbbing and twitching as he pushes upwards, chasing the friction. The hand at your side trembles as he reaches up to cradle the swell of your breast, thumb ghosting over your hardened nipple. His eyes creek open slowly, still only half open as his free hand fights its way beneath the slit in your skirt.

“You’ll be the death of me like this,” He whined softly, shaking his head as the softness of his wavy hair brushed against your chest.

Still, he cannot resist the urge to take a nipple into his mouth, lathing over it with his tongue before sucking gently.

“Ah,” you sigh softly, delighting in the feel of his mouth as you drag your hips faster over his head, “but was it not you who said this was all you could offer me?”

“I take it back,” he declares against your chest, “I think I will die if I cannot have you in the next minute.”

It takes little work to free him from the constraints of his pants. You caught him at a most opportune time, right before he was set to bed down for the night and already free of the heavy, constrictive armor. When you’ve pulled the ties apart, he all but springs free. It’s truly a gorgeous sight to behold, standing fully erect and flushed, with a pearly bead of pre-cum forming at the tip as a sparse spread of dark hair outlines the flushed base. If there was an award for the prettiest cock in all of Eorzea, you’re all but sure Aymeric would take home grand prize. What a shame he’d been so terrified of sex, burdened by the outdated doctrine of the Holy See.

He hissed softly as you take it within your palm, guiding it to your entrance as you slip your underwear to the side. On any normal occasion, you’d prefer to take your time with this and preferably in the comfort and space of a bed rather than his desk chair, but the idea of getting up to move now in the midst of everything is laughable at best.

As the tip of his cock passes through the first tightened ring of muscle, neither one of you is unable to fight the long drawl of a moan that passes your lips. Every time you take him, you get stun locked momentarily by the perfectness of it. The way he so easily slots himself inside, the perfect fit always with the right mixture of friction with which to make your legs squeeze together in delight. Aymeric tosses his head back against his chair, eyes cloudy with pleasure as your name parts from his lips like a prayer. He plants his fit against the ground, sinking lower into the chair as he adjusts his hips, sliding himself deeper as you fall into him, content to let him take over.

Your lips return to his, and he eagerly opens his mouth to accept your tongue, groaning softly all the way. His hands slid down to capture your hips, squeezing once before lifting you just slightly. His entire body quakes with the first few soft, exploratory thrusts. Each drag is slow and you can feel every ridge and vein as he feeds in the last few inches. Already you shiver with the feel of him, the sense of fullness as you push against him, dragging your clit against him with a soft whine against his mouth. Aymeric melts into the chair, taking you with him as he begins to pull out, capturing your bottom lip between his in a gentle nip.

“More,” you whine against him, pulling away to catch sight of his face.

“Oh but you only need to ask, I am your servant,,” he sighs, a dreamy, almost sleazy smile across his face as he begins to thrust in earnest, giving way to pleasure.

It takes him no time to locate your g-spot, clutching at your hips in an almost bruising manner to continue spearing his cock against it. The wet shlick and smack of skin against skin filled the room as he bounces you a top his lap. It wouldn’t take much for someone to discern what was happening, but propriety be damned. Who was he to deny the servant of Hydalyn, to deny the woman he loved, the pleasure she so desperately craved? Who was he to deny his own, boiling at the pit of his stomach as he pulls away, eyebrows knit together in euphoria.

He can feel the slick as it gathers around his base and balls, losing himself to feel of you pulsing and constricting around him. He won’t last long, not like this but he could never selfishly chase his own pleasure without giving you your’s first. He adjusts his grip on your hips, your chests flush together in a way that allows your clit to grind against his abdomen with each thrust. Every part of him is dampened with some fluid, be it the slick that spills from your between your thighs and down his thighs or the sweat gathering at his temples, wetting his bangs just slightly against his forehead. Yet it isn’t enough, selfish to his own desire Aymeric’s lips find your’s again as he delivers a particularly rough thrust to your g-spot that leaves you scrambling for purchase, the embers of your orgasm beginning to heat. He’s sloppy in the way he kisses you now, not the practiced, almost chaste way he might kiss you in the office, or whenever he fears you might be seen. No, every part of it now is fully obscene.

With each ghost of his tongue, it’s like he can’t get enough, coming back again with a deep moan as his thrusts speed up. It’s all consuming, lighting a fire in you that’s not easily quelled but so mind-numbing to chase. Aymeric is, if anything though, a tentative, intuitive lover. Even lost in the pull of his own impending orgasm, he does not neglect your own as he lets one hand reach down, collecting at the slick that gathers near your entrance before swiping away softly at your clit.

“A-Aymeric,” you moan, grasping at his shoulder’s as you feel the sneaking grasp of an orgasm.

“Oh please,” he beseeches you, voice haggard and desperate as he pleads, “I need to feel you cum around me.”

He speaks the last part quieter, none to accustom to dirty talk but it serves enough to send you over the edge, pulling him by the hair to stifle your moans of ecstasy against his all too willing lips. His finger continues gliding over your clit with unmistakable confidence in effort to prolong your orgasm, his cock continuing to push against your g-spot as you gush around him. It takes only a few more practiced thrusts before he pulls out, grasping at his shaft quickly before you feel the warm burst of his seed against the skin of your back. Horny as you are, neither one of you is quite willing or wanting enough to chance bringing a child into the world.

His kiss slows, but he continues to ride out the pleasure of his orgasm with gentle tugs at your hips, merely grinding against you with soft, choking moans that are just barely audible over the crackle of the fire. For a moment, you sit there in the after glow, feeling him soften inside you as you release his lips finally.

They’re swollen, but part nearly instantly in a soft, pleased smile as Aymeric cracks his eyes open to look at you. Shame be damned, he thought to himself, if he was to be damned for bringing pleasure to a goddess such as yourself than he would gladly walk into the enteral fire. He could think of no such being as worthy of both pleasure and comfort as yourself, and the idea that you would share it with him is enough to make his heart warm with yearning. A thousand lifetimes would never be enough, he already feels cheated to have met you now at thirty-two and not so much sooner. Would that he have saved you from unnecessary hardship, but the past was better spent not dwelled upon.

The next time you see Greystone, you shove him against the wall and pin him there with you body, inspiring the villain to burst into delightful giggling as he gazed at you in surprise with manic, adoring blue eyes. "What ever is the meaning of this, hero?" He asks breathlessly.

"You tell me," You say, not allowing yourself to be swayed or softened by his charms or plain affection for you. "There was rumors of a new threat. Another villain on the rise that was gunning for me. All of the sudden it's as if they were wiped off the face of the planet. No one has heard a peep from them, let alone spotted them. Last I heard, they had gotten involved with you. So tell me, Greystone, what did you do?"

The villain had been flushing steadily red under the intensity of your gaze, his breath quick and heated with your forceful demand. Hahh, things had been so sweet between you for so long, he had almost forgotten what it could be like to be this close! To feel your gaze upon him as a villain, as a threat. But not to you. No, never to you. He adored holding your attention so, causing just enough chaos and discord so that you might have to deal with him.

The dynamic between you worked quite well. A song and dance just for him and for his lovely hero. Yet there were always others trying to cut in. To shove him out and claim his rightful spot as his hero's partner. It simply could not be tolerated.

"They overstepped, my dear," Greystone replies with a simpering smile. "They wanted to hurt you. To truly harm you and yours. I simply did what needed to be done to protect you. To maintain the status quo."

His hero's expression pinches and twists. What an unpleasant expression on their lovely face. Were they angry with him?

"Forgive me for intervening, my dearest," Greystone murmurs with a contrite pout, reaching out to stroke his beloved hero's face. Only to make a hurt expression as they brush his hand off.

"What did you..." His hero shakes their head and steps back from him. Looking troubled. "Did you... kill them?"

Greystone steps forward as they retreat from him, ever chasing after them. "Of course not, my heart." He had not. What his dearest, most loyal knight might have done was another story entirely. Though he no longer held such titles, he was still her lord. Her loyalty had not wavered all this time. Ger always did her best to take care of him.

His hero is tense as he grasps their shoulders, gazing at him warily.

"I did not harm them. They were quite well when last I interacted with them," Greystone reassures them, kneading gently at the tense set of their delectable muscles. His hands flit up to cup their face, cradling their cheeks in his palms as he gazes at them wide, compelling blue eyes. His thumb sweeping over the pursed line of their lovely lips. "I only issued them a warning. That to seek to harm you would make them my enemy."

His hero seems reluctant, but does not fight him as he draws them into his embrace. "You had nothing to do with their disappearance?"

Greystone smiles. "Not a thing." It was true that he had no involvement in such matters. His most capable knight took them upon herself, not wanting her lord to sully his hands. His lionheart dealt with threats so neatly that he need not lift a finger. He really should reward her more.

"Now, where is that smile I so adore?" Greystone purrs, delighting in the hesitant quirk of his hero's lips in response. "Aha, there it is! How splendid, how sweet. I simply must have a taste!"

His hero gives something of a startled sound as Greystone tugs them into a fervent, hungry kiss. The villain purring in his throat approvingly as they melt into him.

The subject of other villains who may or may not have been a threat was quickly forgotten.

....

....

❤️

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Emet-Selch, Sorcerer of Eld and Architect of Amaurot, does not finger paint. He sketches and has used gouache more than one, but him? Finger-painting for some ridiculous little festival that damned Exarch has made for the people of the Crystarium? Never. 

The Warrior of Light continues her work as if his criticisms of her art float above her head. She dabs a little more paint on what Emet-Selch thinks might be a flower (or a Flan? Maybe even a radioactive mandragora. He’s never been one for deciphering the doodles of his kin) and pushes hair from her face, smearing a bright line of acrylic across her cheek in the process. 

“My, what a mess you make.” He grimaces at how the paint only smears further when she tries to wipe it off.

She smiles when she replies, “It’s fun. You should try it sometime. Destroying the world and avenging this and that is tough work. Finger-painting is not.”

Emet-Selch sits down on the floor and crosses his legs, slouching nearly more than he does while standing, and very pointedly does not look at the messy palette all too near his right hand. He just watches the Warrior painstakingly dot tiny stamen all over the inside of what he is beginning to realize is a very campy sunflower. He wonders what prompted the usage of indigo instead of yellow, but that could be due to the Warrior’s penchant for purposeful chaos. 

He continues to watch until she sneezes and accidentally flicks paint onto the fur of his robe. He stares at the offending specks of orange in absolute disbelief. “Warrior, tell me,” he asks in his very best attempt at civility, “do you realize what you’ve done?”

She rubs at her nose with one paint-covered hand and looks at his clothing. She squints. “Is that… paint?”

“Yes.”

Her jaw drops. “So you’re joining me?”

Emet-Selch worries that maybe there are more than a few screws loose in her head because he is fuming and all she asked was if he was joining her in making a ridiculous mortal mess of protean art. “You sneezed paint on me,” he clarifies. “Do you understand what that means?”

“Oh. You need a change of clothes?”

He sighs in the most put-upon way he can manage. “Sure,” he says, sarcasm obvious in his tone and the roll of his eyes. “Why not.”

She shuffles over to her wardrobe and pulls out some work clothes, most of which already bearing stains from wear, and tosses a particularly large set of coveralls his way. They are suspiciously close to his size. She then sits back down and gets to work. 

Emet-Selch looks at the fabric in his hands. It wouldn’t do to continue subjecting his clothing to the abuse of being around the Sundered (and paint) and he could surely Create some suitable loungewear with a snap, but… why not wear the clothing the Warrior gave him? Beside the obvious reasons, that is. 

He tugs off his coat and outer robes, stepping into the coveralls and wondering how, exactly, they fit so well considering the Warrior’s own measurements against his own. He barely has time to evaluate whether or not his appearance is satisfactory before the woman in question is patting the floor next to her impatiently. 

“Sit with me!”

He acquiesces and hopes she understands how many of her traits are the same as they were during their days together in Amaurot. The 14th… that their many pieces would be so enduring is balm to his soul. 

She hands him the palette and waits. He blinks. “I do not finger-paint.”

“You can make what you need, yes?” She points at the open spaces throughout her project─a huge fabric banner for the Pendants─and smiles. “I’d appreciate the help.”

He makes a brush without thought, the matrices simpler than things like living beings or clockwork, and says, “I suppose I can assist, given the right incentive.”

“Lyna said she’ll bring lemon wafers over in the afternoon.”

=======================

Nestled within a seemingly fathomless expanse amidst the fringes of the western seas, the Tempest is not exactly what one would call a comforting locale. Its depths are rife with sailor's tales: stories of sirens and storms and ships called to their deaths, even in the days before the Flood brought deadlier creatures to Kholusia's shores.

For a creature like Emet-Selch, a man relegated to furthering his god's work within the myriad hidden places of the Source and its reflections for long years, it will do.

Of course, his choice of abode upon the First is not wholly based upon sentimentality. Sometimes he fancies he has all but forgotten what it is like for the touch of light not to sting his skin; he can bear it when he must but sees little point in deliberately exposing himself to discomfort.

Amber eyes track the rippling ribbons of refracted light that shimmer several fulms overhead, fingers of stark white softened into a glow by the water like knives dulled from use. It is just enough that the seafloor wherein he has rebuilt his most abiding memory does not lie completely shrouded in the darkness of the trench. By its dim illumination does Emet-Selch study the skyline he has built with the critical lens of a master sculptor, seeking any perceived flaws and carefully setting any misgivings aside. For better or worse, the die is cast and his choices made. This final act of creation: completed.

It wants now only for a single soul to darken its doorsteps.

~*~

She is glad to have parted ways with the others briefly, even for investigation's sake.

Although not inclined to lie by nature, she is nonetheless quite aware that her condition has deteriorated farther than any of the other Scions are like to have realized. The corona of light that had flickered at the periphery of her vision has all but overtaken her sight. Blinding white and gold accompanies the pain in her stiffening limbs which has been a constant companion since awakening in the Crystarium.

She pushes herself to a sitting position, then with a supreme act of will regains her feet. Her stance wobbles- perilously close to overcorrecting- but with time and care she is able to keep her balance, and in short order, the Warrior of Darkness finds herself once more stumbling down the vast and near-empty paved streets of an alien city: a city populated only with a single man’s memories of the dead. It is a lonely, lonely path. But that loneliness carries, in itself, a sort of bleak comfort.

Wandering up and down the paved streets of Amaurot’s neat, gridlike layout- or at least the bits that fit into the ocean trench with such suspicious seamlessness- she does not realize her feet have carried her off the beaten path until a bone-deep fatigue gives her cause to grip the cool metal of a fancifully wrought archway for support.

There is, to her surprise, still beauty to be found in this place upon further inspection. The public park she has stumbled upon is a welcome sight and a well-appointed affair at that. Mazes of green painstakingly curated and compelled into obeisance, framing the abstraction of metal sculpture. Flowers of every conceivable color, tall and comfortable-looking trees planted for shade as well as aesthetic.

For the first time since they had rounded the continental shelf and glimpsed the tall spires rising like bony fingers from the darkest depths of the ocean trench, the Warrior feels calm. Something about this place imparts a certain measure of serenity. There is a particular sort of love that has gone into its recreation, a love that is very nearly tangible.

And, somehow, also very familiar.

Fingers trailing through hawthorn and salvia- and a good dozen varieties of flowers her eyes have never seen, on the Source or elsewhere- she meanders in an aimless amble, plagued not only by the Light leaking into her vision but also the feeling that she is searching for something indefinable.

The massive tree in the center of the park brings her to a halt.

There is no other of its kind to be seen anywhere nearby. It stands aloof from the other greenery, silent and ancient and proud--its boughs bent, upon closer inspection, with the weight of many years--much like a certain Ascian of her acquaintance. The Warrior of Darkness finds herself drawn to it in a way that defies understanding.

Gently she reaches for the tree and places one palm upon its enormous trunk. Caresses the roughness of its bark with her fingertips--

-----Mortal agony warps its way through her bones and the sound of fracturing glass rings in her ears as the Light surges.

Biting back a cry of agony she convulses around it, crumpling to the ground, head in her twitching hands as the pain becomes her world. Amaurot fades, distant and unimportant, into her periphery, and upon her tongue, she tastes copper and ozone.

No no no no, not here, not now, not like this--

*I beg your pardon? That’s my tree.*

The resonant chime of the ancients’ tongue, edged with just the slightest hint of annoyance, pierces the cacophony of ravenous hunger and the spasms of her limbs so thoroughly that she… is distracted.

The pain fades and her vision, nearly white, is almost clear.

The figure is as indistinct as all the others -- tall, translucent, almost intimidating -- but something about this one is different. The other shades she has encountered acknowledged her only in the broadest of senses, treating her more as an interruption to the tasks they were set, rather like watching worker mammets forced to move aside an obstacle.

No, this shade seems more present than the others somehow. She can feel something more substantial behind the black holes of the mask peering down at her- something, that is, beyond initial surprise and a sort of mild, rather tolerant annoyance.

“It’s a very large tree,” she manages a weak smile and pats a bottom-sized dip in the root system at her side. “I think there should be plenty of room for both of us.”

The shade tilts its chin to one side, almost like a bird. She fancies she can feel the weight of a stare upon her, silently judging her appearance alongside her words-- but at length, it sits, albeit with abrupt movements that lack the artless grace she had observed among the other figures.

For a long time, they do not speak but simply accept each other’s company with varying degrees of amiability. The Warrior looks out upon the streets beyond the hedges and watches the blurred outlines of the city's shades going about what she can only assume would have once been their daily business, although a keen eye would note that there is not much change in their behavior over time. They are in a perpetual loop of the same discussions, the same paths, the same tasks, over and over.

At length, she hears the soft chiming once more, the words unfolding within her mind in the same instant. Terribly polite of Emet-Selch, she thinks with a hysterical sort of good humor, to at least provide a means of translating his people’s speech.

*So, you've come from out of time - apropos, all things considered. I don’t believe I’ve seen you before,* the shade muses. *...Not in this form, at least.*

The statement is as confusing as it is disarming.

“This… form?” she echoes, but her only answer is another question.

*You’ve come to see Emet-Selch, I take it?*

She tenses. That is all the answer that seems to be necessary.

*Ah.* With a noise that seems to translate as a laboring sigh, the shade’s cowled head comes to rest against the tree trunk. *Your timing is unfortunate. The city is deep in preparations to face the Doom. You’ll be lucky to see him before all is said and done.*

“So I’ve heard.” There is no change in what she can see of the giant’s expression, but she can sense that it was the expected response. “...If I may ask, how did you know I was here to see Emet-Selch?”

*Oh, come now, you needn’t worry about me,* the shade shrugs. *I’m not really here, you know. Well, I’m here but I’m not -present,- as it were. Nor are any of these others.*

“Are you... I mean, you’re not a spirit, are you?”

*Am I to assume you mean a wandering soul? Certainly not. We’re all just memories; naught of real substance, I’m afraid.* An amused titter as the shade stretches, catlike, before rolling its head towards her. *This is an Amaurot upon which the Doom has yet to descend- if it ever does.*

She leans forward and wraps her arms about her knees, hugging them to her chest. The only person - so to speak - in the entire city that actually seems capable of a real conversation and she has no real idea what to ask.

Might as well start with the pleasantries. “What’s your name?”

The black sockets of the mask seem to bore through her flesh and straight into her soul, and although it should make no difference she feels strangely exposed. *...Asking the important questions at last, are we? You can call me Hades. Don’t bother asking any of these others; they’d not be able to give an answer at all.*

“None of the others can really talk about anything beyond superficial matters,” she agreed. “Though I’m curious as to what makes you different. You certainly look the same as they do.”

*Knowing Emet-Selch, he likely had me on the mind while he was creating this overwrought simulacrum of his.* One large hand lifts in a lazy, flippant, and startlingly familiar wave before tucking itself behind Hades’ head. *He always was tediously sentimental. Although I suppose I should be flattered.*

“I’m not sure I follow.”

*Doubtless he thought I would see through the illusion--my sight pales in comparison to his, mind you. But he would know that. We were good friends once, he and I.* A familiar, rueful half-smile tilts the shade's lips. *Although I am no less ephemeral than anything else he’s summoned from his memory. I assume he told you what happened?*

“After a fashion, yes.” She plucks at a blade of grass. “He spoke of a calamity, and how the brightest of his number - yours, that is - came together to summon Zodiark.”

*Not the most accurate summary, in truth, but I suppose it will suffice,* Hades sniffs.

The Warrior listens, with all of the patience for which she is so famous upon the Source, as he speaks. The burning pain of the Light is almost nonexistent in this odd man's presence, and that alone is sweet comfort.

Emet-Selch must have thought highly of this Hades. He is wholly unlike the kind and gentle giants seeming content to drift through empty streets, unaware of the fate that awaits them; he recounts the Ascian’s lecture with an air that could be generously termed sardonic: brusque and laden with quipped observations about how ‘tiresome’ the other man could be, yet in a way that makes obvious their long years of acquaintance. Affection lies just beneath his exasperation, and she finds herself warming to Hades quickly, sour as he seems.

He is blunt-tongued and eccentric, but still kind in his way. She cannot help but like him.

*Needless to say, there were those who didn’t take kindly to the suggestion that we ought to continue sacrificing souls to Zodiark’s appetites, and felt that we ought to make our peace with the new lives we’d created. They summoned Hydaelyn to counter Him. So for the first time in anyone’s memory, we were divided on our course of action---*

“And you fought,” she says, sadly. Sorrow burns in her breast for this man and his fellows, a gentle people who had never known strife if Emet-Selch were to be believed. “He told me.”

*Then you know how it ends.* Hades’ smile fades, and though she half-expects another testy remark, there is none forthcoming. The shade's head shakes slowly, side to side. *So he continues to labor in Zodiark’s name, then.*

“Not for any lack of attempts to thwart him, I assure you.”

*Don't apologize. I should hardly expect otherwise. He’s an obstinate ass,* Hades says flatly, *and that’s only one of his many flaws. Though I imagine it serves him well in this regard-- if none other.*

Despite herself, she laughs.

“I would say it doesn’t even begin to describe him. You can’t imagine-- well, no, I guess you can if you knew him well. Although…”

*Although...?*

She stares at her hands, only able to see a blinding white outline, and does not answer. She does not trust herself to answer.

Sometimes I see a glimpse of a kinder, gentler man, beneath it all. And now- now I find myself mourning the loss of a person I never knew.

If he senses her hesitation, he gives no outward indication of it.

*I’m sure he still intends to carry out his plan.* His eyes might be hidden in the depths of that mask, but she doesn’t need to see them. There is a certain degree of sorrow in his words, blunt as they are. *Mind you, he can commit all manner of cruelties when it suits him to do so now, but he was very different once. Friendly. Compassionate. Very willing to admit his mistakes and seek counsel where warranted. He would take the burdens of other souls upon his own shoulders without a second thought if he felt his aid necessary. Occasionally I found him infuriating, but always he had the purest of intentions.* Each word falls upon her ears with a heavier weight. Hades sighs. *This is a terrible burden he has chosen for himself, make no mistake- and it is all the worse for knowing his temperament is so ill-suited to carry it.*

The quality of the filtered light through the water has changed - the color, the angle, albeit only slightly. It is one of the few ways anyone has in Norvrandt of tracking the time. Evening has fallen.

As if realizing it himself, Hades seems to stir from a sort of reverie, as though their chat is a dream and she is the shade.

*It’s starting to get very late, you know,* he says, rather briskly. *Shouldn’t you be off to get your permit? I’m certain he’s waiting on you.*

“I… yes. Yes, of course.”

Slowly and carefully the Warrior stands, bracing her weight against the tree. It is a nigh-herculean effort to regain her footing; she is desperate to lie down somewhere and try to sleep, but sleep despite her exhausted state has brought neither rest nor peace. The Light lurks just beneath her mortal shell, a predator waiting for its prey to falter.

Time is shorter than she had hoped it would be.

Still, she smiles.

“Thank you for speaking with me, Hades.”

That impatient flip of a wave again, and now she is quite certain she has seen Emet-Selch make that precise gesture a time or two. *If answering your questions assures me a peaceful nap, count me happy to oblige.*

She has almost made it on her slow, staggering feet to the hedgerow when Hades’ voice chimes once more at her back.

*Before you go---there is one more thing. One… minor thing.*

The sadness underscoring his words gives her pause. She turns around.

Hades is not lazing beneath the tree with his back propped against its trunk as she had left him. He too is standing. The giant's gait lists to one side beneath the heavy boughs, and he seems to be looking at something beyond her.

*Who... is that standing next to you?*

She blinks. A glance backwards and to her left shows Ardbert, watching but still keeping a discreet and carefully polite distance, waiting for her to finish her rest and catch up with him. “I... that’s...”

*...Never mind. I suppose it hardly matters, does it? ‘Tis a soul, if a faint impression of one--and the same shade as your own.* That birdlike tilt of the chin. *The color of it… I would know it anywhere. And so, I imagine, would he.*

Her gaze sharpens. The note of longing in the shade’s voice is unmistakable.

*Well, don’t let me keep you.*

His arms fold into the sleeves of his robe, and there is something soft there in the slackened bow of his lips, something that makes her breath catch. They curve upwards, in the faintest and most self-deprecating of smiles. It is the expression of a man that has any number of things to say, and no time to say them.

In the end, he says nothing, and the moment passes. She turns away.

She is met with Ardbert’s stare of open confusion upon reaching the elaborate masonry of the park walkway. “Who were you talking to?”

“Oh, I--”

There is nothing and no one under the tree. It stands a lone sentinel in the center of its clearing just as before, quiet and undisturbed.

The Warrior of Darkness exhales.

+

When she comes to his door she is alone, and barely herself. Her human form is unchanged, but her gait in shambles, her posture defeated and weary--bright but drooping like a wilted rose. Her footfalls echo softly as her feet move with an unrecognizable hesitation, her head turning about as if looking for things unseen. She appears faded at the edges, somehow, as if her flesh is caught in-between states, but what Emet-Selch can see clearly now is her eyes: snow-white, tainted.

She must be all but blind by now, he thinks.

“You’re late, hero,” his voice echoes but she looks directly to its source. He expects a frown or at least a furrowed brow, but her pale face remains unchanged.

“I’m early,” she rebukes, “I still have my wits, don’t I?”

Emet-Selch chuckles darkly. “Your wits and your fire,” he agrees, “Is there a fight yet left in you, I wonder?”

A mirthless smile passes over her face. He wonders if she has come with the intent to kill him: to face him on her own and end it all without the help of her precious friends. Such a plan is utterly foolish, of course, but he cannot help but appreciate such an exquisite example of mortal confidence.

What a waste.

She’s opened her mouth to reply but there are no words before she convulses into a cough she tries to muffle with a shaking hand. Her knees buckle and light breaks from her skin; doubled over she claws at the polished marble floor with a choked sob of pain.

Poor thing.

He crosses the foyer to meet her with a peculiar but genuine pity, something bothersome and longing and far too old. He labours his tired form to one knee before her while she seethes in bright agony--shining white blood falls from her lips and bitter, mortal tears from her eyes. This is a fight she cannot win.

“The worst has yet to come, I’m afraid,” he tells her in a sigh, “I understand the change is quite painful.”

It’s true and it’s cruel and for some illogical reason he regrets saying it aloud. He watches her suffer knowing she will only suffer more, and the thought brings him no pleasure.

It makes him sick to his pathetic vessel’s stomach. Such a disappointment. She could have been so much more. What she was meant to be.

She tries to sit up and instead falls forward. Her shaking hands grab desperately at his robes. He takes hold of her wrists to pull her away, to recoil, but is stunned to inaction by her voice:

“Help me,” she says brokenly.

When she looks up--struggling to make eye contact--the sight inspires both a sort of scientific curiosity and a vexing, broiling weight in his chest. Her eyes search for his, and in her too-pale face he searches in kind. Ironic, some part of him thinks, with her appearance altered by the light she looks more familiar. Here before him in her failure she appears somehow closer to the perfection of his memory. He wants to laugh, but cannot.

“Why did you come, if not for knowing this was the end?” Emet-Selch asks her. “There is naught even I can do for you now.”

Her hands are fists in the furs of his collar, shaking him when her body is wracked by another spasm of light.

“No,” she gasps as if drowning. He wonders if she is. “Help me remember.”

Of course, he thinks, She was ever the curious one. Meddling. Prodding him for information at every turn. Exhausting.

And yet now she begs of him the one thing he would tell her, the knowledge he would give her without hesitation. Her pitiful, fumbling ignorance has led her back to him, finally--after millennia of waiting, millennia of searching, all crystallizes into this moment in which all he can do is refuse.

"It is too late now," he hates the weakness in his voice.

It’s too late. She will be dead or abomination in no time at all, what could possibly come from revealing the truth to her now? He wonders if she would remember at all, or if it would it be as another myth, another story painted on a stone wall, no more than a shadow.

"Please," a plea through clenched teeth. The word hurts. "I want to know. While I’m still me.”

Emet-Selch softens the grip on her wrists when her head droops again. Her warmth is overwhelming and strange when she slumps against his chest. It is he who remembers now, in painful bursts of clarity, remembers what he has always known and longed for her to know.

Time itself holds its breath while the light calms again and for a while, the silence deafens.

"Very well, my dear," he finally concedes. The epithet escapes from somewhere ancient and unpracticed, his voice thick with an old, forgotten gentleness.

Not forgotten after all, here at the end.

He sighs, and smiles ruefully. "Where to begin?"

+

Silence and stillness gather, and Emet-Selch wonders if the Warrior is asleep. He scoffs.

“Honestly, after all of that begging, you could at least try to stay awake,” he says, “I’m not going to repeat myself.”

“I’m listening,” she murmurs. “I’ve heard every word.”

“And? Have you nothing to say?”

Her eyes are closed, but he cannot read her expression in the dim light. She stirs against him and he’s startled by the sudden reminder of her weight, her physical presence: the body tearing itself apart from the inside with white, immaculate claws.

He tells himself he only abides by holding her this way out of convenience-- besides, it would be most unbecoming to allow his guest to lie in a smear of her own tainted blood in his foyer. It was enough of an effort for his aching limbs merely getting her off of the floor, but now at least they could both be somewhat comfortable.

Familiarly comfortable, if he dared admit.

“I always wondered what it was you saw in me,” she rasps, and he swears she is almost smiling.

She is different, of course. She is extraordinary.

"and maybe… what I saw in you."

Smirking.

“I guess now I know.”

Light flickers in her skin and her face contorts in pain but she does not cry out. The flesh rebels, valiantly, but he can feel her fading. He wonders what sort of shape she will take.

"Now you know,” he says, “Though I doubt you remember.”

“You loved her,” she says after a long silence, and that word, that damnable word sticks in his own throat like a jagged stone. She shakes and crumples in on herself like paper in a flame, the particles of her being threatening to pull apart into sparkling embers.

Her words come out more quietly when she presses further: "Didn't you?"

Yes.

But why must she ask, of all things?

"That is long in the past now,” he lies.

“Bullshite,” the dying Warrior snaps weakly, “Isn’t that what all of this is for? Isn’t that why you invited me here?”

So you could be with her one last time?

Emet-Selch says nothing. He casts his gaze out into the starry expanse of Amaurot’s countless windows--windows he could actually report the number of, if pressed--while emptiness expands within him beyond measure.

Her fervor causes more of her frail restraints to snap and the sickness takes advantage. Bright lances of light pierce and explode and she whimpers and gasps and clings to him. Her skin is breaking; he watches cracks forming in a perfect mortal surface to create one anew.

She is strong. She will survive this, whatever is left of her--whatever the pain of her transformation does not extinguish. She will be resplendent and terrifying and suffer every second she lives.

She is full of fear and agony, but still that fire and that insatiable, infuriating questioning--

“Hades,” she says, and he stops breathing, for he had never told her his name--“Do you love me?”

His breath returns in force. How dare she disarm him so. The nerve --the naked mortal audacity. Brazen and bright even in her weakest moment, vexing him into madness even on the very edge of her own existence. That this is how she would spend her final breaths! His fingers grip her shoulder like a vice, and he is exhausted by the violence with which he resists replying “How could I not?”

“Oh, come now,” he manages to say instead, “Now is hardly the time for such foolish questions.”

He is almost blinded by her; when her head falls back over his arm something compels him to cradle it with his other hand.

“I know,” her voice is jagged, “I remember.”

Her mask and cowl have fallen away and for a torturous instant he can see her clearly again: he can hear her voice and remember, remember, to the point it consumes him. Something weak and ancient in him breaks and he falls into the desperate madness of memory. By impulse, by instinct, he crushes her in his arms while the light burns them both.

Help me, she begs him again.

Her flesh is breaking. She screams, muffled by his collar but reverberating through his bones. Seconds drag in an eternity as eternity dies, again--as the one constant fades into what will only rise again as a twisted horror.

Emet-Selch is not a man without mercy, nor is he one to forsake his cause. The hero deserves a hero’s death, but the hero cannot be suffered to live.

Nor can the one he loves live only to suffer.

Light burns behind his eyelids and shadowy fingers grasp at a panicked, racing pulse of life--he holds tightly and the weight is overwhelming, it hurts. It’s a pulse he knows as well as his own and it’s beating in a body far too fragile. Vibrations of strings play familiar music from the wrong instrument.

He cannot take it any longer: shadows squeeze and sever, and his disappointment over the Warrior’s lack of will to fight back is eclipsed by the agonizing, crushing relief of granting his friend the peace she deserves. He silences her cries of pain and tastes the white, shining blood in her mouth; he calls her by her name and tastes nothing when she vanishes into glittering oblivion.

How transient, how insignificant, how utterly aggravating: mortality has failed him yet again. It has failed both of them. Emet-Selch is alone in his city once more, a wandering shadow in the held breath of its final days. The moments pass imperceptibly, the weight of millennia hang upon his tired shoulders, but he has no time to mourn.

When it is all over, he opens his eyes in the dark to regard his empty hands, and sighs.

What a disappointment.

+