Petras heads back to where his beloved darling human is, he’s learning the common language of the baselines that live in and around Gannet Point. Which is the language that his beloved speaks with her friends, family and co-workers.

It had been mildly distressing and frustrating to find out that his beloved is dear friends with Arnault’s and Roland’s humans. Much to his chagrin, he has to interact with the pair of excommunicated Black Templars more often than he’d like due to the fact that their humans like each other.

And were trying to be helpful and have the three of them interact. He had heard from his beloved Witch-whore that there are … several younger Black Templars, and from the description that she has of them. 

They are Primaris Marines. He had requested that he not meet them, in part because of what Arnault and Roland have said and requested of him in regards to the Primaris Space Marines. Another part of him isn’t sure how well he’d hold to the agreement if he had to interact with those abominations.

If he had to do so on a semi-regular or a regular basis… his urge, his understandable desire to purge the Abominations from life. Alas, trying to find others who are like minded as him is very difficult, and something he needs to thread the needle carefully, for if he talks about it to the wrong Space Marine, they might try to kill him or worse.

Petras is a fair hand at sewing and mending cloth and clothes. He hadn’t realized his skill with such things could, well more accurately, would ever be used in the way that he’s using them at the moment. 

However, the idea of his beloved bonded whore in the garb of a black templar serf’s uniform has been paying for black and white, with red and gold trim (as he’s an Honorable Chaplain, his serf’s uniform would reflect his rank) cloth and ribbon. 

After ensuring the texture of the cloth he’d picked didn’t bother himself or his bonded he went to work on making the garment- finding something similar enough to the uniform of a Black Templar Serf, a Concubina, serf at that, their uniform wasn’t for Serf’s who did much cleaning. But could be worn in public, but was obvious to a Black Templar just what kind of work they did.

Petras very carefully does the measuring twice- before cutting once, making sure that there was slack and give, ensuring that he has her exact measurements, then he starts the next part of the process as he starts sewing. 

For the stitching that needed to be hand sewn he had done so as carefully and patiently as he could, imagining just what his beloved whore would look like in the outfit. He’s glad that his human has a sewing machine- and he’s read the instructions on how to use it, carefully using the surprisingly noisy, yet quiet machine to make the outfit.

The outfit comes together surprisingly quickly. He neatly folds the outfit and wraps it up. Petras is excited to see how she’d react to his gift. It’s one that he hopes that she’ll like, and he’ll enjoy unwrapping her, or keeping her partially in it as he stuffs her full of his cock, over and over again.

His beloved whore opens the gift and murmurs- noticing that the colors and markings of the outfit remind her of his armor. She grins up at him and they pepper each other with passionate kisses and touches. She draws away- the teasing minx as she flounces off and returns relatively quickly in the outfit and grins up at him.

“How may I serve you, My Lord?” she chirps up at him in Gothic, in the exact way he’d taught her to and he lets out a lusty purr as he stalks towards her.

“Attend to me, my Whore,” He purrs out to her in Gothic and she nods up at him, her eyes fluttering faux-coyly at him.

“Yes, My Lord,” You say breathily, as you strut over towards him, watching the way his blue eyes smolder and watch your every movement.

When Petras had told you that he was going to make you an outfit for sexy times- who had thought the outfit would be far more scandalous and skimpy, but it was surprisingly comfortable, and you could, potentially wear it out in public, and only you and he would know what the outfit actually meant.

“Clean the armor on my left hand,” Petras purrs out in English as he sits down comfortably on the floor and looks at you with half lidded eyes.

“Yes, Sir,” You chirp up at him and get out a cleaning solution that is body safe, as well as some of your favorite unscented lube. 

Angela had taught you that Space Marines had far more acute senses of smells- and the scents of things could bother them a lot faster than it could for normal humans. You grab a clean tea towel and start to clean the armored hand, making sure to take care to clean and murmur how impressed you were with his armor- how it was scarred, yet well maintained. It showed his prowess in battle- how strong he is to have survived all of those Glorious Battles, how clever he is.

Once the all of the fingers, the palm and top of the hand the wrists, and up to his elbow joint were fully cleaned he rumbles out another order, “Ride my armor- show your devotion to me.”

“Yes my lord.” You say breathily as you move and straddle his arm and he helps lift and move you. 

You shiver a little- his armor is slightly cold and hard, made out of some space metal- or something. Also the casual, easy way he picked you up and carried you around got your engine going as you carefully lube up his fingers and start to grind against his armor. He helps you by teasing your clit, very, very gently, but with enough pressure on your clit that it has you moan and keen throwing your head back.

“Oh- fuck!” You moan, “Petras- fuck. That feels good.”

He purrs at you again, as you continue to grind against his armor and he teases you with his fingers in your clit, slowly opening your hot, wet cunt with one finger. You whine at the burn and stretch of one of his armored fingers.

Fuck- his fingers are usually so big when he’s out of armor- that it’s almost too much to just have one of his fingers playing inside your pussy. He stills and watches you, “Are you alright?”

“Fuck yes love,” You say pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“Color?” Petras insists, with an endearing frown on his face.

“Green,” You reply, “Just continue, more slowly inside me, alright?”

“I will try my best to,” Petras says. “... Ready to restart?”

“Yes please!” You whine up at him and start to grind against his armor and he starts to purr and murmur in the Space Marine language- a mixture of praise and loving insults. You don’t really understand most of what he says, but he has such a deep, rolling voice- it thunders and is smooth and deep. 

He gets you to orgasm almost embarrassingly quickly and he chuckles, pleased as he gently pulls out of your pussy and lightly sets you down, “My lovely Serf- you need to clean my armor of your juices- with your mouth.”

“Yes my lord,” You say as you suck and lick your juices off of him- there is something about the way you almost worship his armor that has Petras praising you some more. His other hand had taken off his armor and was slowly and carefully teasing fingers playing with your clit and pussy again.

“Good girl,” Petras croons, “continue to service me like this. My pretty whore- doing exactly as you are told.”

Once the armor is finished being cleaned again he scoops you up and buries his face in your thighs and you squeal a little as you tug in his short silver-white hair as he eats you out. Fuck- he’s got such a talented tongue as he eats you out. His tongue teasing and tasting your clit and diving in and out of your pussy.

He lightly has one of his hands squeezing your neck- not enough to restrict your breathing, but enough that you are constantly aware of his hand wrapped around your neck as he teases your breasts with his other hand. Squishing and teasing your breast and lightly twisting and pinching your nipples as he wrings out yet another orgasm from you.

Petras looks so good, dripping your juices down his face as he presses a scorching hot kiss against your mouth. You moan at the flavor of his salvia and your cum and he removes his cod piece, you are still wearing the gift- just not wearing underwear.

“Shall I put my cock in your warm, yet pussy?” Petras purrs out the question.

“Yes! My Lord please- give me your cock~” You plead eager to feel his cock stretch you and fill you deliciously.

“Good Girl,” Petras purrs as he slowly and teasingly guides his cock inside of you and slowly thrust in and out of you. 

There is a slight sting of pain and cold- as he’s almost entirely in his armor while he fucks you- but it’s also hot to see him in his armor and pussy drunk as he fucks you at the same time. Fuck- this feels soo good.

After Petras had cum inside of her twice, he purrs and tells her how good she was for him as he carefully takes her to the bathroom. You are so tired and are glad that you have the next three days off as Petras carefully washes your body in warm water and cleans you up. 

Helping your jelly limbs return to functioning. He waits outside of the bathroom as you pee and you stumble out of the bathroom and smell food. Petras perks up and presses a gentle kiss to your nose, lips, both cheeks, forehead and chin and gently sweeps you up off your feet and gently set you down on the couch, wrapped up in your favorite blanket as the pair of watch your favorite show and he hand feeds you salty and sweet snacks.

You fully recovered from that session and yawn, tired and he nuzzles you and gently carries you to your room. He helps you brush your teeth and presses more gentle kisses and praises into your ears and cheeks as he tucks you in and cuddles you.

You wake up pleasantly sore the next morning- and Petras having made you some breakfast in bed as he helps you with stretches and some over the counter pain medications to help with some of the less pleasant soreness.

“That was a great session,” You say to Petras with a smile. 

“I’m glad.” Petras says, “Thank you for talking about and deciding to do this latest session.”

You giggle at him, “You seemed to have gotten really into it.”

“Ja- you were amazing,” Petras purrs, “All lovely and pliant und wunderbar.”

“Where did you get that outfit?” You ask him curiously.

Bashfully Petras looks away before looking at you and saying, “I made it myself- I bought the cloth and it’s while I did those measurements of your body.”

“Oh!” You say surprised, “You have a talent for tailoring, Petras.”

“Danke,” Petras says, you can tell he feels a little shy about it.

“... Perhaps if we have other ideas for outfits, you could make them, if you wanted to?” You ask him gently.

“... I could do that, ja.” Petras says, “Do you have a request, My Darling?”

“Not at the moment,” You reply, “But I’ll think about it.”

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

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.