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It is strange, seeing Azem’s face on a creation. At least, Hermes is fairly certain that it’s a creation. Hythlodaeus says that their new friend - Gereon, she had introduced herself as - had met them at the entrance of Propylon, barely a wisp of aether but with the same colour of Azem’s soul. She had been unable to speak and only came up to their knees, jumping up and down to get their attention. A slip of aether and dynamis, Emet-Selch had to grant her aether to be the same size and density as they were. She is indeed different - broad, robust in physique, a command of aether and magic at her fingertips, looking around at everything with awe - but it’s Azem’s face and, if Hythlodaeus is to be believed, touched by Azem’s soul too. She claims to be Azem’s familiar. A soul-bearing familiar, perhaps, but…it still doesn’t seem to fit.
She certainly stands out. Gereon stared at him and Meteion with awe, her hands at her sides, a staff strapped to her back under borrowed robes. She does not…quite look like Azem. It is Azem’s dark skin, the black and white hair, the golden eyes, Azem’s beauty and strength. But it is also white face paint in the pattern of stars across her cheekbones. A nose not quite of man, more blunted at the tip. A strange piece of jewelry - aetheryte, from the look of it - wrapped around her hand under the robe, and a white crystal pinned into its wrist. She is as beautiful as Azem, true, but it is so very much not Azem that it makes Hermes want to study her, to pick all of her details apart.
It is easier to do so now, admittedly, when he is hanging upside down from a tree after having tried to catch a rather ambitious ambystoma.
“Do you need help?” She asks, her voice a similar rumbling pitch to Azem’s, but the accent a little different. She tucks her staff away and holds out her arms under the branch, waiting. Her mouth twitches in that half smile that he knows on Azem’s face to mean restrained laughter. Whether it means the same on her own is up for debate.
“I should be fine, thank you,” he says, trying to preserve his dignity.
“The others are currently watching your other…what did you call them?”
“Ambystoma.”
“Yes, those. No one will see, and I would rather not see you get bruised, Master Hermes.”
Hermes weighs it for a moment. “You are sure I will not hurt you?” He asks worriedly. “I do not wish to.”
“I have carried far heavier than you for far longer, Hermes,” she replies, putting a little more emphasis on his name than he would have expected. It rolls off her tongue, dragging the ‘r’ out, and it sounds so exotic that he wants her to say it again. “I will catch you and there will not be a moment of pain on either of our parts.”
It takes a moment for him to gather himself, to let the Chief Overseer fall away enough to be just a man stuck in a tree, and sighs. “Alright.”
He tries to control the movement, to get down in his own way with Gereon only as a back up. But, of course, his foot catches on a branch and he loses his grip. He falls backward, and before he can hit the ground, Gereon catches him. He doesn’t quite take them to the ground, but it’s a very near thing. Her feet stay grounded, adjusting only to maintain balance, and she bobs him for a moment in the cradle hold to make sure he’s stable. “There we go,” she says with a smile, her expression easy. “Are you alright?”
She is so close like this. Her bare face is right next to his, her golden eyes staring at his mask. Even through the robes, he can feel the strength in her limbs and her hands are warm. He is lucky she cannot see the flush of his cheekbones behind the grey mask, and he just nods, not quite able to summon words for a moment. “Yes, thank you.”
She eases him to his feet, and he straightens his posture, brushing off his robes. Up close, she’s taller than he is, her shoulders broader, but her touch is gentle as she picks a twig out of his hair. “Somehow, I did not expect climbing trees to be a regular research practice here.”
“We endeavor to explore all avenues to observe our creations,” Hermes replies, mouth twitching in a smile. “Although it does require less falling.”
Gereon laughs at that. “I should hope so, or it may skew your results.” She leans down and picks up the ambystoma, petting the back of it. Surprisingly, it does not fly off in her grasp, only chirping a little. “So…may I ask about these? I may not understand all that you say, but they are rather sweet.”
“Of course. I would be happy to share it.”
It is clear she does not understand everything he says as he describes the creation process of the ambystoma, but as they walk back, she is listening intently and asks questions as best as she can. Her attention on him is great enough that Meteion comments, “You are happy to hear him!”
She flushes a little bit. “He reminds of- of my loved ones, who peer into the unknown just as much,” there is another softness to her smile.
Meteion immediately starts clamouring at her. “I don’t know this emotion. What is it? Is it like having a favourite food?”
Hermes holds the ambystoma carefully as they walk. “Love, I imagine.”
“What is that?”
Gereon smiles. “A feeling of deep affection and caring. That you like having a person with you, that you want them with you always, through good and bad.”
“Oh!” Meteion ponders. “Then I love Hermes!”
Gereon's answering smile is fond, even as Hermes blinks in confusion, not quite sure how to respond. “Perhaps you do. There are many forms of love in this world.”
“Like what?” Meteion said in excitement. “Please, I want to hear!”
Hermes watches as Azem’s creation begins to speak, spinning words about the different kinds of love that there are in the world, from that between friends, between family, between those who believe in the same cause, and the love for all mankind. It is a lovely explanation, fitting for one that has been made by Azem. He simply holds the ambystoma close until they get to the pond, and slide the creature carefully into the water back to where it belongs. It makes a little chirping noise as Hermes pets the top of its head with a finger, and he cannot help but smile at the little creation. So sweet, these little creatures. He is glad that they have had a chance to grow and thrive so far, even if they are more than a little adventurous.
“I see!” Meteion says. “Love is a very big feeling.”
“It is,” Gereon nods.
“Do you love me?” The entelechie asks.
Azem’s creation beams in response, the sunlight catching the white in her hair and the smile in such a way that she almost…glows. “I sure I will, with a little bit of time. I want to know you first.”
“And Hermes?”
Hermes jolts a bit, looking over at the two of them. “Please forgive Meteion’s curiosity,” he replies, feeling himself flush just a little. “You do not have to answer that.”
“That’s alright. I would like to get to know you better anyway, whether that is out of love or a simple curiosity,” Gereon slides her hands into her pockets. “If that’s okay, of course.”
There is such...earnest intention in her voice and as she looks at him, he cannot decide what he wants. Part of him remembers that, as far as the rest of Amaurot is concerned, he is an aberration, a bundle of doubt and anger, emotions that darken the flowers around him. He should tuck those emotions far away where anyone can see, to keep himself locked away such that only Meteion can look into his soul. And yet...there is something about Gereon that gives him pause. Her expression is warm and guarded, but there is an edge to her features as she looks around. She looks at Emet-Selch with amusement, but suspiciousness. She looks at Meteion with surprise and the most intense curiosity he has never seen. And when she looks at Hythlodaeus, there is wonder and happiness in her eyes…but…
Sadness. This creation of Azem’s looks sad as she listens to Hythlodaeus speak.
He did not think that anyone else could be sad in this place, and that is what bids his mouth to open. “Perhaps we may know each other more, Gereon.”
Her nod is certain, her hands at her back. “I hope so.” Her voice is heavy with intent, her attention a palpable weight on him, and he feels a shiver run up his spine. Whether it is with trepidation, excitement, or anticipation, he does not know, but…he is curious where it may lead.
As night falls upon Elpis, there is a knock on his door to pull Hermes out of his reading. “Yes?” Somehow, he expects it to be one of the many scientists under his purview. He does not expect to see Gereon pushing the door open with a shoulder, her hair slightly ruffled, her robe pulled to the side as if she had rolled out of bed. He blinks in surprise, his jaw dropping slightly. “Gereon. I thought you were asleep.”
“I thought I was as well, but it is evading me,” she replies with a shrug. “Neither are you. I thought we were trying not to be sleep-deprived.”
Hermes looks Gereon up and down, and nods, ever so slowly. It is strange, seeing her choose continuously to not wear a mask, and perhaps, that is what helps separate her from Azem in his mind. Gereon is as boisterous as she is, but more somehow concerned with expressions and presentation. “I confess my mind to be rather overfull with all that has happened today, and I thought to do some reading regarding the creativity theories we have encountered today,” he closes the book he was holding, setting it on the table nearby. “Is there something amiss?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing amiss, fret not. I apologize for disturbing you, but…I wanted to ask you something.”
Perhaps this might be the opportunity he has been hoping for. “Of course. Come in.” She steps inside and Hermes offers her a chair. She sits elegantly, resting her hands on her knees, and he reaches over to a cooling teapot nearby. “Would you like some tea? I received some as a gift from another visitor.”
“I would, thank you.”
He pours the tea into a clay mug and tops off his own with warmer liquid, passing it over to her. “What did you want to ask?”
Gereon sips at the tea and closes her eyes for a moment before she begins. “I wanted to ask about Elpis. I have never been here before, but ‘tis a place unlike any I have ever heard of.”
“You have not explored here before?” Hermes asks.
Gereon shakes her head. “No. I have not even been much around Amaurot.”
“Strange. I did not think Azem would keep one of her creations tucked away,” Hermes taps his chin with a finger. “I will have to ask about that.”
“She wouldn’t?”
Hermes shakes his head. “No. Azem has ever been one for freedom. She has never been one to wound.”
Somehow, that sentence makes Gereon’s mouth twitch in a smile. “That’s fitting. You knew her before?”
“There have been times where she has come to Elpis to inquire about specific concepts and how they could be utilized, yes. Her concept of creation magic has a very different approach than mine own,” He runs his finger along the cover of the book. “Both before and after she took her seat.”
As he speaks, he finds himself looking back on those moments rather fondly.
“Hermes. Hermeeeeees.”
“Azem, how did you get up there?”
“I climbed? It’s not that hard if you try. I’ve climbed far worse.”
“Does Hythlodaeus know you’re here?”
“What he does not know will not hurt him.”
"I feel as though this is a bad idea."
"Hush. Now, I have a question about the Charybdis and whether or not you can ride them...”
“It’s…rude to ask for names before they took on the title, I believe,” Gereon sighs. “A shame. I have so many questions.”
He ponders this for a moment, about what kind of rules that Azem taught their creation about the world that they would think this and that they would not share this personal information with their creation. Afterwhich, he replies, “You can at least ask about your master. Asclepius would not be upset by sharing that knowledge.”
“Asclepius,” she repeats carefully. She almost cradles the word as she speaks, as though hearing that simple name was the greatest gift of all. Her eyes go soft and slowly, she raises her hand to rest against her sternum, close to where the heart would be in a living thing. “Thank you, Hermes.”
Clearly, it means more to her than he can understand. “It is my pleasure, Gereon. So…what do you wish to know about Elpis?”
As she begins to ask her questions, Hermes can conclude that at the very least, she definitely inherited her creator’s curiosity. She asks not only questions about the structure of Elpis and the kinds of creations that are within, but about the plants, travelling between the islands, the criteria for a creation to be added the Bureau’s list of acceptable creations, what sorts of creations have been accepted recently and the most notable ones that were denied. Hermes, for his part, is more than happy to answer, especially when he realizes that she wants as much detail as she can. Not just the slightly more detailed version he gives people who are curious. No, no, she wants all the details. “The kind that you would put in a report,” she says. “Please.”
“I applaud your memory if you would retain this information,” he cannot help his chuckle.
She pauses. “...do you have paper?”
By the time he finishes his explanations of the creation criteria and what determines rejection, Gereon has covered several pages with messy print. Her hands get a bit of ink smeared on them - strange, that she does not use creation magic to write, but if she was so weak that she could not even make her own clothes, that make sense - but the words are still legible. “I must ask, did Azem teach you the complexities of creation magic and the theory behind it?”
Gereon shakes her head. “'Tis why I am taking notes. I hope to do some side by side comparisons of the information with someone else and some reference texts.”
“You wish to learn more?” This is an interesting opportunity to learn more about this soul-bearing creation.
This time, there is a nod as Gereon finishes her written sentence. “I am not particularly well-read, but I do enjoy hearing what people are passionate about.”
“You are incredibly empathetic.”
“I try,” she sits back in her chair. “It is an amazing place. You must be proud of your work.”
“I am. Very much so.” He smiles despite himself. "For all that my work can be unpleasant at times, I take great joy in nurturing the many different forms of life that grow here."
She tips her head slightly, weighing his words. “If I may ask, I have a rather personal question, though you may choose not to answer.”
He frowns slightly. “I understand. What is your question?”
For a moment, her golden eyes dart down to look at the ground. "Amaurot lies below us, yes?" When he nods, she asks, "What...what is your favourite thing about Amaurot? Sight, smell, experience, whatever it may be. I would love to know it."
That somehow...was not what he expected. He thought that perhaps she would ask questions about the Elpis flower and more about how it always grew dark for him, more of their shared pain and sorrow. It was certainly something that he wanted to know more about from Gereon herself.
I have known the pain and sorrow of loss, fury and frustration, doubt and anxiety, She had said to him. I know the sorrow from not being able to save those that you were meant to heal. I may not know all of your pain, Hermes, but in a sea of white...perhaps I can stand in your darkness with you.
But that is not what she asked. No, instead, she watches him with her gentle gaze, golden eyes steadily taking him in, waiting for him to answer. Her pen hovers slightly over the page, waiting for whatever wondrous sight he has to offer. That it is very wondrous, but he will try to do his best. "You say that you have not wandered the streets of Amaurot overmuch. Do you know the paths by the Macarenses Angle?"
She nods excitedly, her eyes twinkling. "By the Bureau of the Administrator’s office and the aetheryte?" Her delight is palpable, so much so that it takes her a moment to remember to write it down. It is...oddly endearing.
"There is...a multi-tiered garden that grows beneath it, filled with exotic creations put together by the Akademia Anyder," he says quietly, "known as Nemo's Garden. It is a place of work and contemplation. There are many favoured locations within this attraction, where people will gather to smell the ambrosia flowers or pet the small phanopsyches. However, there are quieter levels, with arachne specimens and glowing fungi, with the wind blowing the spores into brilliant clouds."
Hermes closes his eyes for a moment, imagining himself walking through the garden again. “There is a bench there that I favour on one of those levels, where I will sit and simply…think. It is not quite the same as Elpis, where there is a buzz of activity and other scientists can disrupt me. Every sound echoes off of the walls, from the slightest movement of visitors and animals to the dripping of water down the rock, almost as though it is singing. The still air’s heaviness is a comfort, with the faintest taste of dust and rock to it, and the air is redolent with the scent of soil and stubborn life. I have at times, when my appointments with the Bureau grow too intense and my emotions run high, secreted myself away there for hours at a time, simply watching the arachnes spin their webs. It is oddly relaxing, and when I think of Amaurot, I think of that place. A speck of darkness in the sea of blue light.”
For a long moment, they sit in silence. At first, Hermes is worried that he has said too much and that he has made it awkward. However, when he opens his eyes and looks at Gereon, her eyes are shut. The pen rests loosely in her fingers against the page, leaving a small ink spot, and she lets out a slow breath in and out. Perhaps she is trying to taste the air, seeing if she can find the faintest scent of soil that will transport her to the place he is thinking of. It is oddly sweet to look at, and with it, Hermes lets himself close his eyes too, drifting off in memory.
Finally, Gereon breaks the silence to speak. “Thank you.”
If Hermes could bring himself to blush, he would. “Tis no trouble. But I have a question for you in turn, if I may,” Hermes asks hesitantly.
“Of course,” Gereon replies. “After what I have asked of you, I am happy to answer.”
“You are…a soul-bearing creation,” he says carefully. “Sentient, with free will.”
“If that is what you prefer to call me, then yes,” Gereon replies, not giving him a yes or a no.
“Is that not what you would call yourself?”
“No, but I do not think that is what you are truly asking.”
“Right.” Hermes steers himself back on track. “You are more susceptible to dynamis than Meteion is, but…do you have wants? Dreams and wishes?”
“I do, yes.”
“Of what sort?”
Gereon sits back in the chair, crossing one long leg over another. She thinks for a long moment, as if weighing her words, and Hermes uses the opportunity to study her. There are boots under the aether-made robes - high, made of some kind of leather, with a high pointed heel - and she bobs her foot a little as she thinks.
“I like swimming and warm weather, and being able to eat ice cream on the shore as I watch others. I like the feeling of wind blowing through my hair, and as much as I think snow is beautiful, I cannot stand the cold,” she shudders a bit, as if remembering something. “Nor olives, and I would rather go outside than read, but I would gladly listen to others discuss what they have learned. I can fight and rather enjoy it, but I cannot stand the sight of losing those I could have saved. As for dreams and wishes…”
Her eyes close once more, dark lashes brushing against her skin. She breathes, slow and easy, and Hermes waits until she speaks again.
“I dream about setting down my burden,” she replies with a smile. “I was, for lack of a better term, created to help. That is what I do every day, my…purpose in life. I dream of the day that I get to pause. To savor the world I helped better. I want to sit with my loved ones in a green field under trees, with a clear sky and birdsong in the air, on a blanket with a picnic, and just…be.”
It is a beautiful scene to picture. As she speaks, Gereon’s eyes stay closed, her head tilting back slightly to expose her throat. Hermes looks for one moment, admiring it, before returning to her words. “To help?”
She nods, opening her eyes to look at him again. “I am a healer. The world tears itself apart day after day in a multitude of ways. The least I can do is try to put it back together.”
He smiles at that. “I know the feeling well. But pray, answer me this. You say your purpose is to help, but…do you find it meaningful? Your work?”
She raises an eyebrow, looking at him as though he has asked her the composition of the stars. “You are asking what I think gives my life meaning? What do I feel I am living for?”
He flushes a little, somehow horrified with himself at his own impertinence. “Forgive me, that is too grand of a-”
“Fret not, I will answer, Hermes," her voice is gentle, smiling. "I asked so many questions before. It is the least I can do, from one sad being to another.”
When he looks up, there is no scorn in her expression. She looks thoughtful, head turned slightly to the side, touching her finger to her lip as she ponders. “I think 'meaning' is a relative concept. What you think is meaningful and what I think are meaningful are different things. It is determined by observers, by their values, experience, and preferences,” Her finger taps her lip once or twice, drawing his eyes to it before her words pull him away from it again. “I am more comfortable ending a life than you are because I feel some lives take precedence over others, while you do not. And I have met people who were comfortable with the idea of killing me because they did not believe my existence qualified as personhood.”
Hermes flinches a bit at the calmness of her delivery, at the idea that someone would look at this clever wonderful being and decide that she was worth destroying, but lets her finish speaking.
“But for a real answer…” she looks over at him for a moment before turning her eyes skyward, towards something only she knew. “I think that connection is meaningful. Solitude can be uplifting, but it is important to connect to the world around you and nourish it. Friends. Family. Colleagues. Romance, if that is something desired. To have marks left on you by others and leave marks on them in return, metaphorically speaking. That is what makes life living - to leave your traces behind.”
Hermes tips his head. “That was…not something I had considered. I am focused on the act of creation, of bringing life into the world, as is Eitherys, but the actual act of making a mark....”
“That is a connection too, isn’t it?” She shrugs. “We decide the meaning and gravity of our connections. For instance, I have a forced connection with someone I want to punch in the face every time he speaks, but he thinks I am his only friend in the world.”
Hermes snorts before managing to school his expression once more. “While valuable, the act of making a mark on others and letting them make a mark on you does not excuse the pain that can be brought into a life by ending it.”
“No, it does not,” she replies, and when she speaks, Hermes can hear the undercurrent of pain, of sorrow, of emotion so vast that it makes him ache. He remembers, yet again, that with only a thought, Gereon had lit the elpis flowers into the brilliant purple of sorrow. There was emotion in her the likes of which he did not understand, and he knew he had neither trust nor time for her to share it with him. “And that is a question we don’t know the answer to.”
“Tis why I began this endeavor with Meteion and her sisters,” he replies, finishing his teacup. “I hope to find at least one perspective on this answer.”
Her mouth twitches. “I hope that you find the answer that you seek, then, and if it is not, that you may stay strong and take it under advisement, not simply as guidance.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Do you speak with experience?”
“Blind causes are a plenty,” she shrugs, “born of ignorance both willful and not. To follow one course while ignoring all others, set that what you look towards is the only solution that makes sense…that is a fool’s path, and you may hunt so intently for the monster in the shadows that you miss the torch that casts it.”
“You are wise for a creation,” Hermes wonders. “I have much to think about, although…I have little experience with connections. Colleagues, yes, but much of my time is spent alone and, as of late, with Meteion. I would not know where to begin.”
Gereon’s smile twists into something a little sharper, something not just of joy. “I could help with that, possibly?” She asks. “In whatever way you think of.”
“What do you-” he thinks over her words. Friends. Family. Colleagues.
Romance, if that is something desired.
There is no mask to hide his face now as his face flushes with heat, the colour spreading up his cheekbones. “Ah.” He manages, staring at her golden eyes.
She chuckles, a low sound, and something about it makes his heart thud. “I do mean in whatever way you prefer. Whether that is as friends, I am happy to do so. As for further, if you do not wish to do so, we may pretend I never spoke.”
Hermes is certain that his face is as red as an apple, but looks to her wrist, the glowing item there. She mentioned not liking reading, and never mentioned crafting. “Do you not have a partner?” He gestures to her wrist. “I imagine that was made for you, and it does not strike me as part of the creation of a familiar.”
She turns her wrist over to examine it and smiles, rubbing at it with her thumb. “I have two, in fact,” she replies, her voice almost unbearably soft, the same way Hythlodaeus goes when he talks about Emet-Selch and Azem. “But we are not a closed loop.”
For all of his lack of understanding of relationships between people, he does know the dynamics of the creatures he studies, and he knows not every creation practices monogamy. “I see,” he manages, but he is still rather red. “I…know not where to begin.”
“That is a yes?” She asks carefully. “You can always say no.”
He swallows and nods. The scientific curiosity hovers at the back of his mind, but the heat of her gaze as she looks over him is slowly burning him alive. “Yes,” he says quietly. “Please.”
Gereon’s smile is almost predatory as she gets up from her chair to stand over him. Her hand reaches forward and gently takes his chin, lifting it to meet her eyes. She leans forward, pausing just ilms from his mouth, and when she exhales, the feeling of her breath sends a shiver down his spine. Her voice is a low rumble as she murmurs, “Then let us begin, Hermes.”
Hermes has been kissed before, but no one has ever kissed him quite like Gereon is kissing him now. His mind thinks of naught but fire and sunlight to describe her, as her every touch is hot and burning. There is no space for thought, for air, for anything other than to simply take in the moment. His hands fall to her waist, not sure what else to do, and she proceeds to kiss him until he is struggling for air. Pressed back into his chair, the last of her tea cooling on the table, he lets himself be swept away in the need for connection.
It does not fill the hole in his chest, but it does make the edges a little less sharp. Even when he hands the reins of the future to Meteion and hears Gereon scream at him in rage, he remembers that. For one moment, he was not alone with his pain, in his loneliness…and that is enough.
Fandaniel stirs from a lazy daze, watching the aether drain from the Source up into the great Tower of Babil. The dream flickers at the edge of his memory, something he cannot fully reach to grasp it again, but the pleasure of it is strong enough to touch his mind. A connection of some kind, some long lost thing back when he was Hermes, or perhaps when he was Amon, something out of his reach. It is something far beyond his usual thoughts of nothingness, of something…different. For now, he pushes it away as he rises from his seat, ready to meet the chaos he has created at Camp Broken Glass.
Their guest has almost arrived. It is time to play.