#hythazemet

His office, he knows like the back of his hand, and the illusion that he is not so terribly often in residence has served well to keep all but the most urgent of cases from his door over the years. The navigating of it is relatively simple, even with the items of lesser aetheric density making barely visible ghosts of themselves. And to teleport from there directly home (and vice versa) is only sensible, and, in-fact, the norm for many. He can do without the small joys of his walk home for as long as might be necessary.

Late into the evening, he learns that clear sight of the book in his wife’s lap is an impossible affair, the outline of it a tremulously skeletal thing that he cannot pin down, and so he rests his head against her shoulder in such a fashion as invites her to understand he would enjoy hearing her read, and he need not stumble over himself should she giggle at a line she finds especially amusing and point it out to share it with him.

It is easy to follow the glowing beacons of the colours he loves best through doorways and down into bed. That is, it is a simple, glorious affair of intertwining flames that he allows himself to bask in as robes are abandoned at the end of the bed and pleasure soon follows, until it strikes clear at his heart that he cannot discern the blush that he so loves to chase over Hades’ skin, nor perceive the brightness in amber eyes that reveals a devotion that he could drown in.

But he utters not a word of his loss, instead channeling faith into belief in its return. That he will see his husband pretend not to smile time and again, and witness Azem’s delight in her latest discovery from across the star.

For two days, it works. Muscle memory serves him well, and he reminds himself to give himself a stern talking to over a handful of concept approvals falling behind. If he takes Azem’s arm a little more around their home, leaning into her every now and then, well it is perfectly normal for them to seek out physical contact even when it is not strictly necessary.

(Later, he will realise that she was always there precisely when he needed her.)

On the morning of the third day, as he gazes down at a sleepy Hades, fascinated, as ever, by the threads of near-white gold and darkest shadow that drift through his soul, he waits for some theatrically disgruntled remark to be levelled at him, only to hear…

“You’ve been hiding this for days, haven’t you?”

He considers lying. Pretending. Feigning ignorance.

Yet there is a particular pain running through those words that betrays a desire for a confession that he has not made; a worry centred on its absence.

Of course Hades would know. Maybe it is that he has known all along, of course able to most clearly identify even the slightest distance to his gaze and know what it means. Perhaps he has seen what of his aether he has been burning through to use his sight: a mere thimbleful for the man he loves, yet for him…

“It’s temporary,” he says softly. “A defence mechanism from a new creature concept. One I will not be approving without significant changes.”

He tries out the idea of a smile that he knows does not flourish, fear suddenly rising to choke him and–

A flash of light. Sunshine spilling through a gap in the heavy drapes at the windows. A flicker at the periphery of darkness.

He hears himself take in a shuddering breath.

And lets Hades hold him for the remainder of the morning.

It is a distant realisation, to understand he has not named him so within their home.

He brings him back to him kiss by kiss, easing him so willingly back onto that paperwork to chant his name and chase away the memory of the other.

iii.

They are at odds, the three of them.

Emet-Selch, Azem and...

(Who is it that he is, again?)

It is not, Hythlodaeus knows, Hades and their beloved wife entrenching themselves ever-deeper in opposing ideals. No, they are as one in heart and longings, and yet—

The masks. The Third. The Fourteenth.

He wonders if they are but making caricatures of themselves, dancing the steps as others expect, and now cannot retreat.

More and more, it is Emet-Selch who gazes upon him. Emet-Selch who coaxes him into bed and falls to uttering promises he cannot keep.

Emet-Selch he must leave behind.

iv.

He drifts.

The screaming of the souls he keeps company with has quieted over the years, as more and more have forgotten themselves and what reasons they have to howl.

Sometimes, he is aware enough to let his attention drift to the star. Sees a man with golden eyes in never quite the right shade from one lifetime to the next. More names; more masks. What began in the dying days of their fading Amaurot, he sees unfold over many thousands of years. A role carefully shaped, crafted, and honed into overt and overplayed delight in cruelty.

Is all lost?

v.

Hythlodaeus does not think to make himself anything – anyone – other than who he is as his soul blessedly slips from one realm to another.

But he wonders, bracing himself for which version of the man he has been pining for since before their final parting he will meet.

There is a fearfulness to the figure before him. A trembling. An unwillingness to impose himself.

Which is why he most determinedly folds him into his arms and holds on tight. Eventually eases back enough to study him and—

Those eyes.

(His eyes, his eyes, his eyes...)

Rich and sun-bright gold.

Hades.