Work Text:
What Remains of the Tempest
Let them be hunted soundly. At this hour
Lies at my mercy all mine enemies.
Human minds, frail and scared,
Freed by death, and death is fair.
Hopeless souls play a part
In my wicked work of art.
Confined in the scathing embrace of his throne, Solus zos Galvus dwelled on the name his people had bestowed upon him. “Your Radiance,” they said. Did they know the truth of what they spoke? Indeed, he was the only radiant one among them. His soul was the only one that gleamed with the light of perfection. The heaviness that traversed his muscles and coiled around his joints was an ongoing reminder that soon, the title would be conferred upon another. For many years had Varis prepared himself to take the throne, undeserving of it as he was. With an audible scoff, the Emperor let his mind wander to a time when his body was lithe and strong; he recalled when pain was fleeting, and memories were everlasting. Every bothersome memory was etched into his heart—no, his soul —and he would never have it otherwise. Soon it would all come back, and he would rest. No longer would he be the most radiant soul in the room, and most certainly not when Azem would make their long-awaited return. The thought twisted the corners of his lips upward, like the stem of a delicate plant bent between a dear friend’s gentle fingers.
“Your Radiance.” A discordant voice interrupted his thoughts. It dragged him from the empyrean light that had once danced in a friend’s shimmering eyes, back into the Stygian wasteland this body called home. The guard flattened his back and extended his arm in a show of militarised respect, as though this somehow made him larger. Perhaps it did, but how much larger could an insect become when it stood before a behemoth?
“What is it?” He asked, a scoff clouding the frigid air in front of his lips as he looked away from the hideous creature.
“The guests have arrived, Your Radiance.”
*
The arrival of new souls drew Emet-Selch’s gaze—if he could even call them that. Fractured monstrosities, perhaps, but to dub them souls would be to deem them worthy. These fell beasts had proven time and time again that they were unfit to inhabit the star. Now, what remained of hope for them now marched into his city. How they raised their heads to the heavens, believing themselves unparalleled in their prowess. If they only knew what futile, helpless creatures they truly were. Here in his city, they would see an ephemeral echo of what the world once was. What were they in the face of such glorious grandeur? Standing atop the Achora Heights, he could see it in all its wondrous splendour. Perhaps now they would come to comprehend that for which he had toiled so tirelessly.
They had come in search of his mercy, but now he wondered if he had any left to give. Mercy had never been in the plan. He had corrupted the clerics and priests of the Second Astral Era; instilled the creation of Dalamud in the Fourth, that it may serve him in the Sixth; tempted countless creatures to sin, all to prove that mankind was nothing without Zodiark’s salvation. They had been a thorn in his side, unwavering in their efforts to survive, but they all succumbed to his whims in the end.
My high charms work,
And these, mine enemies, are all knit up
In their distractions. They now are in my power.
Such relief, every time.
Taking life, to take what’s mine.
“Are you sure about this?” Elidibus asked, his fingers curling inward before relaxing into the air as he let out his pent up breath. “To open a gate to the Thirteenth is to risk a repetition of Igeyorhm’s mistake. We cannot afford to lose another shard, Emet-Selch, and I would not intervene in your plans unless I am faced with no other choice… I respect you too much.”
“Rest assured that I am well aware of the risks, but this time will be different.” Emet-Selch waved a hand in the stagnant air, observing Etheirys with an amused smirk.
“You are enabling this mission… I would know why.” Elidibus folded his arms over his chest and shook his head. “The others understand too little to question your motives, but even I sometimes find your behaviour baffling.”
“Do you, really? Well, you always were the younger one… To answer your question, I have no interest in Xande’s plan. It is destined to fail, just like his pitiful empire. His creations will be his downfall. From ashes he came, and to ashes he will return. That he lacks the foresight to know it speaks to the inevitability of his fate. His creations, however, may serve us in the future.”
“You speak of Dalamud, and the dreadwyrm?” The white-robed Ascian brought his fingers to his chin as he began to make sense of his ally’s plan.
“Among other things, but yes. They all fancy themselves masters of their own fate, but they are little more than pawns. The fourth rejoining will be upon us ere long, and our plan one step closer to fruition.”
“Very well… But know that Hydaelyn will not observe in silence. Her champions will attempt to forestall our progression.”
“Let Her come.” Emet-Selch chuckled for a moment, his gaze shifting to his dormant god. If his friend could sense his presence, he prayed he could also sense his resolve. “With each rejoining, our Master’s strength waxes, and Hers wanes. She has Her pawns, and we have ours, so may the better puppeteer win.”
*
With a cursory glance at his illusory skyline, Emet-Selch shrugged his shoulders before walking away from the Hall of Rhetoric. Time had been his tapestry, and upon it he had woven the strident screams of mankind’s symphonic sacrifice. He had etched himself into the annals of history, both as ruler and as advisor, but he had only ever been his title: Emet-Selch—overseer of the underworld. It was his duty to populate the realm of the dead, just as he had populated this city with ethereal shades. He had fulfilled that duty without ever questioning the bloodshed—it was an infinitesimally low price to pay for the return of the life they had lost.
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air;
At the end,
Here we lie.
Here we're killers or we die.
Each brick and window had been meticulously laid out. Not a breath was out of place, and yet something was missing. Every shade walked along its predetermined path and reached its fated destination, where it faded into nothingness, then repeated its ritual. One shade, however, was absent. It could not be Amaurot without him. Perhaps Azem was one for fleeing the city at the most inopportune times, but not Hythlodaeus.
He visualised Hythlodaeus in his mind’s eye. His hair was haphazardly braided, the rest of it hanging in a loose almost-ponytail like a project he had abandoned in favour of more intriguing interests. His lips never abandoned a lingering smile, always primed to laugh at something or another. When he would turn his head to glance at something nearby, the breeze would lift the loose strands on his head as though it wished to carry him in a skyward dance, and he would lift his hand to his lips and chuckle softly. Through hooded eyes, he gazed at the world through a lens Emet-Selch could never comprehend. It was as though appreciation and amusement had merged into one expression. Sometimes he wondered if his friend could see beyond the colour of one’s soul, into its very reason for being. Perhaps this was why he was so well-suited for his role in the city, and why he would discover the truth in an instant. Even as a false creation, he would know the truth.
Raising his trembling fingers into the air, Emet-Selch brought them together with a resounding snap . There, by the Achora Heights, his friend waved his hand in the air before beginning to march towards his inevitable sacrifice. Clutching the pillar by his side did little. The sorcerer crumbled to the ground, burying his face in his hands before gripping its hair between its fingers. If only he had said something. If only he had stopped him from marching to a fate far worse than death, for what could be worse than an eternity watching this monstrosity of Hydaelyn’s creation? Looking up at the tall figure preparing to repeat his procession, Emet-Selch opened his mouth to speak, only to find himself silenced. For a brief instant, the shade glanced at him, brought its fingers to its lips, and chuckled before continuing on its way.
Thus did Emet-Selch find his resolve renewed. If Hythlodaeus would be forced to continue walking his accursed path until their mission was complete, then so would he. Slowly, he stood up and turned around, walking away from the bitter scene.
*
Looking up once more, he stopped by the Bureau of the Architect. He wondered how his friend fared on the moon. How much longer would he have to wait to resume his duty? Or had Emet-Selch taken that seat, too, for himself? Had the world—nay, all of the worlds—not been his blueprint? For millennia, he had instructed his pawns to strike, to manipulate, and to unknowingly rejoin. He had constructed the realm’s historic empires like towers made of wooden blocks, and with a snap of his fingers, he had sent them tumbling down to the ground. No sooner would the dust settle in their wake, than would he set out to build something new in their stead—an infantile game of which he had grown weary.
Hydaelyn’s children often said that the second bite of a delicacy would never compare to the first. A fleeting moment of wisdom, perhaps, but still ever so short-sighted. They could only muster a fraction of the love his unsundered heart could conjure; they could only recall fleeting joys that would seem dreadfully mundane if pitted against the heavenly happiness he so desperately wished to restore. He had mercy enough left in him to know that they could not know better. Even his lesser colleagues of the convocation lacked the drive he possessed… How pitiful indeed.
As his feet wandered past the Macarenses Angle, so too did his mind wander to the seventh Rejoining. How these fools had wept and screamed for what they had called a “calamity.” How they pleaded with their precious Twelve for mercy, when he knew the truth: salvation lay between Zodiark’s bound hands, imprisoned within Hydaelyn’s accursed cage, and it was his duty to free his master.
Refusing her grand hests, she did confine thee,
By help of her more potent ministers
And in her most unmitigable rage,
Into a cloven pine; within which rift
Imprison'd thou didst painfully remain.
When the world was turned to grey,
The hatred wouldn’t go away,
Resentment in chains.
“You have been visiting my abode more frequently as of late, Emet-Selch.” Elidibus folded his arms over his chest and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “I dare not hope that you have come to enjoy my company.”
“Yes, I’m sure that would certainly throw off your precious balance…” Emet-Selch muttered, shaking his head. “I am no longer bound by my old body and its… Requirements. I have more time, and I would rather spend it alongside our master than there with Hydaelyn’s little pets.”
“Very well. I leave you to your brooding, then. In the meantime, I will watch over Mitron and Loghrif.” With a final nod of his head, Elidibus faded into the shadows.
As Emet-Selch’s eyes scoured the moon’s surface for any sign of his friend’s soul, he at last found him idling in a distant corner of its gaol. He glanced upward for a moment, scowling as the Watcher observed in silence. Hydaelyn’s first servant, and Her most diligent one, although surprisingly also the least invasive among them. Once he had reached his destination, he looked beyond the sphere, and found Hythlodaeus sleeping soundly. At last, the shock of the last rejoining had left him. It was a wretched fate indeed. Lowering himself onto a boulder, Emet-Selch recalled how Hythlodaeus’s eyes had flitted right and left as he tried with all his might to hide his fear and sorrow. All the souls around him screamed and cried in agony. The Ascian overlord’s ears ached as they cursed the self-same sacrifice which he toiled to make worthwhile.
“Help us!” They pleaded, plastering their hands and faces into the shimmering walls that detained them. “Please! Surely if we return to the star, our suffering will end!”
Only Hythlodaeus remained silent, searching only for a soul to reassure him. When Emet-Selch found him, he called out to inform him of his arrival, but he could not hear him. Instead, he simply smiled, his shoulders falling and his shaking body growing still once more.
“I swear, I will free you! We will be together again! All of us!” Emet-Selch cried, pushing himself as close to the barrier as he could. If he could only get inside, then he would comfort his friend. His words fell on deaf ears, and only when he turned his back did he sense Hythlodaeus’s soul begin to tremble once more. But he knew there was naught he could do but work towards the eighth rejoining, and so would he make meaning of humanity’s sacrifice.
*
The burden of fourteen skies grew heavy on his aching shoulders, but bear it he would. Until the very end, it was his duty to guide mankind to their own penance. Along this same path had once walked myriad souls, voluntarily surrendering the very essence of their perfect existence for the salvation of the star. If these creatures had endured a mere fraction of the sorrow he had witnessed in the Final Days, they would gladly have offered themselves to Zodiark. Alas, they were not keen on self-sacrifice. Nevertheless, their end had been the same. Just as nigh on every discussion in the Akadaemia Anyder had ended in aporia, Hydaelyn’s fractured creations ended their lives with no answers. Looking up at the building, he scoffed to himself. At least Lahabrea’s students had questions. Could the people of today say the same? Surely not.
Walking away from the looming doors of the Akadaemia, Emet-Selch found himself with a question of his own: Why did he loathe them so? Varis had never made his confusion a secret, but how could he comprehend it, when he was just as ignorant as them all? They were dull, fractured, and useless beyond their supply of aether to Zodiark. Little more than repetitions of the horrors he had witnessed, conjured into existence by weary, innocent, frightened hands. To witness radiant souls so haphazardly ripped asunder, mangled at the seams, scarring their fragile bodies against the jagged edges of the shards across which they had been strewn… Had the Final Days ever truly ended?
We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
When order disappeared,
And madness took control,
The conscience in me drowned.
“What’s your dream, Emet-Selch?” Azem asked, walking a step ahead of their friends.
“To be rid of your incessant nagging.” He replied, a smile tugging at his lips. He was only half-joking, after all.
“Grumpy as usual… What about you, Hythlodaeus?” They turned their gaze to the more amicable companion.
“To never again receive another concept for a marine creation.” Hythlodaeus answered, hiding his lips behind his hand as he laughed.
“You two are impossible, truly!” Azem shook their head, throwing their hands in the air in protest.
“Why not tell us of your dream, instead?” Hythlodaeus suggested, raising a finger to the air.
“To annoy me into an early return, I’m sure.” Emet-Selch scoffed, shaking his head.
“Gladly!” Azem announced, turning around to face them as they continued to walk backwards. Their eyes glistened in the sunlight, as if the light of their dream were moments away from manifesting in a wondrous creation before them this instant. “My dream is to see the world a thousand times over! Not just this one, either, but all the worlds there ever were! I wish to see it all, in every light, at every time, in joy and in hardship, and I wish to find something to love everywhere I go, and at the end of the day, come home to share it with you.”
“Spare me the tales, if you would.” Emet-Selch grumbled. “I already hear enough of it at our meetings with the Convocation.”
*
Thus he arrived at the Capitol. His lips managed a meagre smile as he recalled the arguments that would arise within its halls, with one voice often ringing louder than most. Here met the greatest minds of Amaurot, thoughts ablaze with new creations, new ideas, and new visions for their future. Their debates had danced between the pillars, and their rebuttals resounded along the walls. Here he had listened to tales of worldly travels, and reluctantly regaled others with his own experiences.
As his gaze shifted to the door from whence he had come, his smile faded. Here he had heard Fandaniel’s suggestion of a creation so powerful, it would save all of mankind. Was this not what they all wanted? When Fandaniel had proffered the question, it had not occurred to any of them that he would lead to the sacrifice of half of their population. He wondered if Fandaniel had ever wanted them to inherit the star in the first place. His notorious mercy towards the experiments in Elpis had not been far from his ears, and now he found himself faced with yet another question. Had Fandaniel suggested the summoning to enact his deranged notion of divine justice on the people who had forced every other creation to sacrifice its life for the greater good? Looking up to the ceiling, Emet-Selch realised that the motive did not matter, only the return of the world Azem had dreamt to see.
All thy vexations
Were but my trials of thy love, and thou
Hast strangely stood the test. Here afore heaven
I ratify this rich gift.
I want to be your guide
Into the afterlife,
It’s a gift, look past the pain like I do.
I want to see your eyes,
Just before your demise,
When only fear remains inside you.
“Why do you refuse to see reason?” He cried, throwing his hands into the air. “If you have any other grand ideas, speak them now or else cease this infantile tantrum of yours, Azem!”
“I will not, Emet-Selch! I know mankind. I have travelled as far as this world would allow me, and I would have gone further if my feet would carry me there. Mankind must do more than live. We must survive if we are to earn our place upon this star, and there is no survival to be found in the creation of a foul beast to soak all the beauty of our existence and sputter out a bitter paradise. Whatever joys we find in this world it would create would be tainted with the sorrow of the friends we lost… I could not suffer it to be so.”
“Look around you! Do you find these creations to be much more appealing? They, too, steal away our very existence. They rob us of everything we hold dear, terrorising and murdering us until naught is left us but an echoing scream! At least the souls we sacrifice to Zodiark would die for something!”
“These are not creations, Emet-Selch! They are manifestations of our worst fears, and I fear nothing but the fate you would have me welcome with open arms. I would not look upon the world and see a false mirage and find happiness. No… In fact, I would call that my worst nightmare. Emet-Selch… Hades . I did not come to love humanity for the paradise we inhabited. Mankind is deserving of love for what it is, and we have a strength within us to hold fast to such hope! Such strength! Such curiosity! Do you not wish to see what wonders we can create if we can only learn to survive ?”
“I will not listen to any more of your whimsical drivel. I will fulfil my duty to the Convocation, and if you will not, then here is where you and I part ways. It is my duty, as it was yours, to save this star. If you would sit idly by and spew sophistry, then you do so alone.”
In their retreating wake, Azem left only a crimson mask. Someday, he promised himself, their world would be restored, and they would forgive him. Together, they would wander the new realm, and all would be well again. He would restore everything this tragedy stole from him, and among it all would be Azem’s companionship.
*
As his eyes roamed right and left, he came at last to the door he had kept sealed. The door to the truth he could not bring himself to face, nor could he allow himself to forget. With clenched fists, he proceeded into the flames of terror that had plagued his paradise. Such inescapable sorrow was necessary to renew his resolve. No choice remained to him but to complete his mission, no matter the cost. Nevertheless, he could not deny that Hydaelyn’s chosen champion had fought valiantly indeed, so much so that he had almost begun to believe in them. Their struggle had been the truest manifestation of Azem’s love for mankind, and so he would reward them with a fitting end. Whatever mercy he had left would be spent on this one soul, and only suffering would remain. He would do away with all of his illusions bar this one door, and damn himself to the shared purgatory of his people’s dying gasp. Thus was his duty: to become the megalomaniacal madman, for the sake of their star.
I'll deliver all;
And promise you calm seas, auspicious gales
And sail so expeditious that shall catch
Your royal fleet far off.
—William Shakespeare ( The Tempest).
In the coldest of all hearts,
A voice descends, the light departs;
Madness remains.
—Aviators ( Remains)