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That morning, Anesidora was not appointed as the fourteenth seat of the Convocation.
They had kindly rejected the offer. For the first time in recent memory, someone has denied a position in the Convocation. Gossip spreads fast in Amaurot, especially the denial of what many would consider a lifelong honor.
But Anesidora said they found themself ‘ill-fit’, as told via a handwritten letter that inevitably made its way into the hands of Emet-Selch. They address the letter to no one in particular, and yet their mind focuses in on Emet-Selch's grimace as he reads it:
To whom it may concern,
Regarding my recent appointment as seat of Azem, I would like to formally decline the invitation. I am incredibly honored to have been chosen among the Convocation. However, in my current position, I find myself unfit to fulfill the responsibilities of Azem to their fullest capacity.
As always, I wish only the best for the Convocation and its future endeavors.
Kind Regards,
Anesidora.
And though Emet-Selch had his fair share of good humor, Anesidora did not rest that night without a twist of the ear.
Nightfall had taken Amaurot once again. Anesidora counts the stars with intimate familiarity. Combing over the sky with palms outstretched in the air. Bundles and bundles of stars, as they sit upon lonesome rooftops. Such is routine for them, carved among corners of the city that no other dares to climb. A small sanctuary, a small solace.
Ere long, a figure approaches behind them. The hollow sound of footsteps rings through the air. There is only one such Amaurotine who could possibly find them at this hour. One who would bother to venture into the cold air of newborn night. Hephaestus, the artisan. He clings tightly to his robes as the wind threatens to remove his hood.
Needless to say, Emet-Selch was not the only one who had a few words to spare them.
Hephaestus has always been an odd fit for Amaurot. He lives, or sleeps rather, in the Bureau of the Architect, though he does not work there. Not formally, anyways. But these days, keeping track of every concept and their appropriate records is a lofty task.
And so, more often than not, Hephaestus could be found wallowing away in the Bureau. Sometimes, hard at work for the Bureau. And other times, he sinks deep into the blueprints of his newest concept. There's hardly a building around inviting his presence. A sore problem for all of Amaurot to deal with, roaming as he pleases.
Anesidora cannot say they have ever met someone who manages to be so social yet so solitary at the same time.
(He is not solitary when they are around. But Anesidora is an exception.)
He sits down next to them. "Without fail, I find you here," Hephaestus says with a laugh.
“Good evening, Hephaestus.”
“It’s far past evening now,” Hephaestus says. “I was worried you were brooding again and it looks like I was right.
Anesidora notices a concept, a new one, perched upon his shoulder. His latest creation is some manner of golem. Its body is crafted of cracked rock and thin metal. The golem was not possessed of a life of its own but rather whatever shallow imitation Hephaestus was intent on making. Other Amaurotines say his creation magicks have a unique quality to them. A characteristic stiffness, befitting of a sculpture. Often, Anesidora heard others joke that Hephaestus was born without a soul. After all, his creations seemed devoid of anything a soul could offer.
(And yet, despite this, Anesidora is certain of the weight of his soul. They feel it pulsing through him, a soft, colorless light emanating through the fabric of his robes.)
They say his concepts are amateurish, like a youth absorbed in a fit of pointless, meaningless passion. They say his rhetoric is foolish and incomprehensible. But Anesidora has always liked these things. They’ve always liked him.
It’s refreshing.
“I heard that you denied the Convocation’s offer to join them,” Hephaestus says. He cuts away at any pretenses, any false starts. He knows what he wants from this conversation.
A long trail of pale hair frames his masked face. Tonight, Hephaestus wears an unlikely braid, as though he is dressed for mourning. Despite the fact that the two of them are alone, Hephaestus does not remove his mask. But it’s hardly necessary at this point, having seen every inch of him laid bare. Anesidora knows his eyes even when they cannot see them.
Hephaestus is worried for them. Of course he is. He always is.
Anesidora does not look him in the eyes. They tilt their head down to their lap, where two thumbs twiddle in idle circles. “And so what if I did?” they say. “It was an offer, not an obligation.”
Hephaestus clicks his tongue. Not a satisfying answer for one such as him.
"I take it your friend in the Convocation was not impressed."
Anesidora laughs. "Had you not heard as much for his own mouth?"
"I could have," he says. "But, it is you that our dear Hades likes. He does not like me."
Hephaestus tosses around an old name like it's weightless. It's more than Emet-Selch, it seems most of Amaurot does not like him—a fact Hephaestus is well aware of. Anesidora has never known why, and their friendship with him has done little to stain their reputation.
He's still awaiting some sort of reasoning for their rejection. So they offer him this, instead: “What will become of you if I leave?”
A weight hangs in their throat.
“You say that as if you’ll never return.”
Part of them knows something he doesn’t.
“You would let your worry of me prevail over an opportunity to leave this stuffy city behind?” Hephaestus cocks an eyebrow. “That seems unlike you.”
A ‘stuffy city’ hardly describes the stars that they bear witness to. Words like those are sacrilege, Hephaestus knows. But as is his nature, he speaks them regardless.
“You will not like the answer I have to offer,” Anesidora says, still averting their eyes from him. “But something inside me tells me that I should stay here.”
Hephaestus laughs. “Well you’re right about that. That I don’t like the answer, that is,” he says. “However, I can’t stop your instincts, if this is the life you so choose.”
He has not seen the visions that Anesidora has seen. Somehow, they feel as though disaster will always be wrought by their own hands. Such is their burden, the weight of the Star bears down upon them at night. Their concepts are a dangerous sort, just as volatile as they are beautiful, and despite Anesidora’s amiable nature, they are cursed. Maybe that's why Anesidora is so drawn to Hephaestus.
Anesidora is afraid.
That morning, Anesidora was not appointed as the fourteenth seat of the Convocation.
Not but a few evenings later, word spread in Amaurot that the seat of Azem was finally to be occupied. Of the devout Aristoboule, or young Aristo as many had taken to call her. She was a fine woman, if a bit naive, and so the news of Anesidora’s rejection was all but quelled to a flood of praise and celebration.
Eventually, they too participate in the festivities. They spot the Convocation’s newest member surrounded by eager Amaurotines in the Capitol, quietly creeping in to join the rest of the crowd. Her robes are polished and perfect and she sports her new mask, a bright crimson, with eagerness.
Anesidora taps her on the shoulder. “Congratulations, Aristo,” they say. “Or—pardon my mistake—congratulations, Azem .”
She jumps a bit, surprised to see Anesidora behind her. Beneath her mask, Anesidora could sense a blush of the selfsame color.
She shakes her head. “Oh, Anesidora! Tis good to see you,” Azem says. “And thank you. There’s really no need, I haven’t done anything with my seat yet.”
Anesidora smiles. She would make a fine Azem, they think. A fine Azem with the strength of conviction that Anesidora never had.
When the Final Days came to pass, Anesidora survived and Hephaestus did not. He was sacrificed to restore the land’s splendor.
Hephaestus says to them: “I’m going to return to the Star now.” And he says it firmly, a matter of fact.
Anesidora’s heart sinks to their stomach. At first, they’re of the mind that they will join him. However, the words, the anger, dissolves just as quickly as they appear. Instead, Anesidora and Hephaestus share a look of solemn understanding. There are those yet alive that will object to Anesidora’s sacrifice. And Anesidora, for their part, is afraid. Anesidora is afraid of dying.
Part of Anesidora is angered at Hephaestus’ selfishness, the sting of being left behind. And part of Anesidora is angered at themself for even thinking of such a sacrifice as selfish, even for just an instant. His selfishness, their selfishness. Maybe they’re both selfish in the end.
Anesidora pulls out a scratched, white mask from underneath their robe. They keep a few crumpled letters inside the mask for safekeeping. Confessions left unsaid, better off left unsaid. Their thumbs draw circles around the eyes. If they look deep enough, they see two bright yellow circles staring back at them, the moon among a starless night. Another nightfall Anesidora spends sitting from afar, observing the illumination of evening streetlamps and chatter down below. No one comes beckoning for them anymore. Pure and final solace, at last.
The now vacant seat of Azem pierces Amaurot like a wound. Azem’s very title rings with betrayal, while the rest of the Convocation tastes of lingering bitterness. But if Anesidora had said yes, all those eves ago, would they have had the power to step away?
Would they have killed Hephaestus? Who else would they have killed along the way?
Now, hardly a soul around speaks of the lost dead. Hephaestus, least of all. Who cares about some half-baked artisan and his half-baked creations? But indeed, Anesidora can see the beauty of his essence in the soil of the earth and in the skies above. Echoes of his laughter danced among the flowers. The clouds above twist and swirl with the whimsy of his smile.
(The future shines bright, despite the weight of a thousand corpses that hang on their shoulders.)
Anesidora leans down and plucks a white flower from the ground. They are no longer a coward.
The flower twists in their hand, petals soft as silk. They are not afraid, not of themself and not of what beckoned them beyond Amaurot. At last, they knew. In time, Anesidora and Hephaestus would meet again.
(The future is where Hephaestus is waiting.)