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Daybreak brought the sun into the gold-lined windows, and the light roused him from sleep as it always did. Daylight touched the towers outside, turning the city into a tangle of beautiful, shining spires that glinted beneath the watchful eye of an adoring sun. Mornings promised the eternal renewal of life, the day returning after the graceful departure of the night, heralded with the sound of early conversations and birdsong. As Emet-Selch sat up and turned his face toward the windows, he realized something was missing. No noise sounded from the streets far below. Even if the denizens of Amaurot saw fit to rest longer than usual, the calls of the birds always reached even the tallest towers. Scowling, he stood and crossed to the wardrobe, quickly slipping into his robes.
“Strangely quiet this morning, is it not?” Emet-Selch looked back over his shoulder. His eyes flicked to the disheveled bedsheets on the empty bed, and he froze.
His brow furrowed. Where are they? They never woke before him. Not without waking him with whatever inane early morning conversations would pass between them, at least. Even when Azem needed to take his leave in the earliest hours of the dawn, he made Hythlodaeus promise not to leave before he woke. Emet-Selch felt a flash of misplaced embarrassment, always begrudging the care that the three of them indulged him in.
Though his heart had already sunk low in his chest, Emet-Selch knew he should find Kereboros. He would be there, as he always was. With a final glance at the empty bed and the still world outside the window, he left the room.
The path to Kereboros’ quarters was so familiar he could walk it in his sleep. There were times in their childhood that he had done just that, long before they had this place to call home. Emet-Selch, when he was only Hades, would sometimes wake to find himself curled up against the taller boy’s side. Kereboros always spoke in earnest when he asked him how he came to be there, and the answer never changed. You came here on your own, though I think you may have been asleep.
He had never liked to wake up alone.
As he rounded the corner, his footsteps stalled. He could not hear him. Not the soft sound of his very aether, nor the familiar notes of a song played on the piano. There was nothing.
“Kereboros?” He called out.
No answer. Each step he took only made his chest twist tighter. The atrium would be empty, devoid of any sign of Kereboros. Yet he would not know unless he looked with his own eyes. Emet-Selch pushed open the door.
A soft exclamation of relief escaped his lips. Two familiar forms curled in the mess of blankets and soft pillows, more nest than bed, serving as the psychopomp’s resting place. Azem only ever looked small with Kereboros beside him. The tall man engulfed any who took comfort in his shadow. Even the sun. Stepping closer, he quietly thanked fate itself for the simple comfort of seeing the rise and fall of Kereboros’ chest, and the familiar furrow of concentration Azem wore while slumbering. The younger man stirred, slowly lifting his head.
“Is something amiss, Emet-Selch?” Azem’s voice sounded with the clarity of a bell as he sat up, his flame-colored hair tousled from sleep. Kereboros, always the second to wake, fixed his warm, sightless gaze on him and simply said his name.
Emet-Selch moved to join them, falling onto the soft piles of blankets and into their welcoming arms. His eyes stung and, only then, did he realize he had been crying. The pair were soothing him, or trying to, weaving soft reassurances even as Azem asked again if something had happened to bring him to such a frightened state.
Frightened. Was he frightened?
He tried to recount to them what had happened. The silence. The empty bed. Had that been enough to scare him? Why should such simple things leave him so rattled? But the words were garbled and incomplete as they left him. Kereboros took one of his hands, and Azem the other, until at last he felt his heart cease its racing. They were here, they were safe. Emet-Selch closed his eyes. The soft sound of the psychopomp’s aether was there now, just as tangible as the voices of his friends. Perhaps it had all been an illusion of some sort. Soon the day would unfurl in earnest, and the city would awaken in all its splendor. Sighing, he looked at Azem with a frown.
“Where is Hythlodaeus?”
The face staring back at him, always a mask of repose and mirth, crumbled into horror.
“Oh, Hades,” Azem covered his mouth with his hand. “Don’t you remember?”
“Remember what?” He felt his heart sinking again. “What, what don’t I remember? Where is he?” Turning, he looked to Kereboros.
“You sent him away from us,” The tall man said. As though it was the most natural thing in the world. As though it was fact.
“What?” He hissed.
“You gave him to Him, Hades. Have you forgotten?”
The glass was breaking in the atrium. Falling from its leaden traces like crystalline snow. A sky the color of Psyche’s hair blazed above. The jasmine, he thought, the jasmine is burning.
Solus yae Galvus awoke with a sharp intake of breath. Blinking away the all too familiar dream, he stared up at the familiar canopy. After so many years of false promises that left him with weepy eyes, he was beginning to prefer the dreams with their corpses in starring roles instead. As he pawed at his eyes with his palm, he felt the sting of tears once more. How many more nightmares, he wondered, with a cold, tired laugh rising in his throat.