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The recorder hums to life under his fingers.
"All accounted for. We will continue our discussions on. . ."
Lahabrea's preface, normally so calming, had hid a layer of exhaustion audible only to those frequently at his side.
Emet-Selch sighs. Requesting a copy was a mistake.
It was an even greater mistake to listen to it.
He flicks the recorder off.
Azem is gone.
It is not an uncommon occurrence, Azem often abstains from meetings due to external responsibilities, but Azem departed, the familiar Soul shrouded and distant.
Emet-Selch closes his eyes, the color he so longs to see burning into his eyelids.
He clutches the recorder.
One would never call Lahabrea dry; he never droned and the situation was as distant from dull as the star is from the universe's end, but everyone had their thoughts - their passions and proposals - and Azem had disagreed. Azem was far from the only one, in truth, but when the convocation had recessed, Azem had not returned.
Emet-Selch half expected Fandaniel to follow.
"Unheard of." Pashtarot had murmured of responsibility through law, Mitron of chastisement, and Lahabrea censure, endless censure -
In the history of their people, there had been no similar circumstances to aid in determining how Azem’s situation might be handled, the very concept illogical amidst endless peace. But in a tumultuous time, none of the Fourteen had the time nor strength - nor even will - to put effort into pursuit or punishment.
Emet-Selch halts the replay once more, the light hum of transmission cut short.
Sorrow, a scouring contagion unrestrained, eroded the very soul of every occupant in turn. His heart raw, exposed as if by a burn, Emet-Selch settles deeply into his home seating, in hopes that it might well swallow him whole.
Azem is gone and Etheirys burns -
And if no action is taken, its people will burn with it.
Emet-Selch shifts the timer forward, wanting little more than to dissipate the record into the aether.
The recorder flickers on, static unsettling the heavy air.
Lahabrea had stood then, holding his head high - that none other might need to:
"There will be a vote."
Submissions are down.
Hythlodaeus had proposed an expected decrease in the Bureau's submissions while presenting the statistics before the Fourteen, arguing the rejection of repeated ideas to be a necessary sacrifice in improving the quality of future concepts.
He taps at his screen with a frown.
But the release of quarterly statistics demonstrates that they have decreased far beyond acceptable parameters.
More and more commonly overheard in debate halls, there are worries that the Bureau oversteps its bounds - that creativity is stifled and variants of concepts are yet important to bringing ideas to life, especially for budding creators.
Perhaps some are worried that their submissions might be rejected, their trust in the Bureau's judgement faltering.
And what can he do, but wait?
The Fourteen have greater matters to attend to than the Chief of the Bureau of the Architect’s whims - and, certainly, he can find no fault in that - but the citizens grow agitated and some fiercer advocates have begun petitioning against the Bureau, requests piling up as tales of the Sound become more dire by the day. Undoubtedly, in time, discussions about the regulations will begin anew and, as Chief, Hythlodaeus will be required to provide updated statistics for the period of which the restrictions were in place.
And he will give them the truth: though submissions are down, the quality and overall variety has gone up, the controversial policy working as intended.
(There was relief for a time, at least, that Hythlodaeus needn’t fear the same score of marine variants on his desk every morning - alas, like all particularly good things, it was bound to return to the aether.)
As it stands, there’s little Hythlodaeus can do save prepare -
Though with worries escalating as rumors further mount, he can’t say precisely for what.
He flips the off screen, a faint pulsing of a headache growing as Hythlodaeus begins to feel the seclusion of his station.
This is his burden, he will accept the people’s decision, one way or another, but it can be difficult to bear alone. Yet alone he must, for the mighty responsibilities of the Fourteen leave the Convocation debating within the capitol for long hours - far longer than under any previously known circumstances - and Emet-Selch returns to his living space late into the evening, shoulders slumped so deeply that it seems the weight of the whole of Amaurot rests upon them.
It might well.
And Azem -
He knows not the circumstances, official or personal, behind Azem having taken leave from the capitol earlier in the day, but he’s certain their departure is temporary. They always return - and they always will.
Shuffling paperwork around in last minute sorting and catalogueing does little assuage his worries and with a sigh - the depths of which are more more commonly heard from Emet-Selch than himself - he departs the Bureau for the day, offering a pleasant smile and wave to the colleagues he passes.
They needn’t share in their Chief's troubles, after all.
Amaurot’s streets are quiet as Hythlodaeus passes. Save the light whisper of an evening’s gale rustling his robes, the typical bustle is hushed, replaced with whispers of:
Stay home.
Would that he could.
Distracted, Hythlodaeus moves from the walkway, leaning his back against a ledge far enough out that he’ll not cause trouble. Slipping out his phone, he taps the screen until he reaches a familiar number.
Emet-Selch’s private line rings and rings - though that it’s powered on signifies he has completed his duties for the day - and Hythlodaeus remains patient. He’ll answer in time, when he gets irritated enough, and Hythlodaeus has a patience far outstripping his friend’s.
“I’m at home.” When Emet-Selch finally answers, he speaks curtly - moreso than his usual inflection - an edge to his voice that is impossible to discern over the communication device. Hythlodaeus frowns, niggling uncertainty growing.
“I’m coming.”
‘There’s no need.’ - it’s what Emet-Selch does not reply that is most worrying. Under normal circumstances, Emet-Selch would fuss stubbornly, rejecting Hythlodaeus’ offer, but the absence of such tendencies only deepens his worry Hythlodaeus returns the device to his sack, speeding quickly through familiar passages until he reaches his destination.
His friends are familiar visitors in Emet-Selch’s residential quarters, so those few stragglers in the halls that greet Hythlodaeus offer little surprise at his presence as he makes his way hastily to the familiar address.
A pair of respectful knocks grants no response - nor does his firmer, more panicked variant, Emet-Selch yet unanswering. Shuffling through his belongings, Hythlodaeus pulls out his cardkey - long since keyed into the apartment, just as Azem and Emet-Selch are to his - and cracks the door.
Hythlodaeus needs only peek in to find him.
There is no kindly way to put it: Emet-Selch looks miserable, his gaze boring into an inoffensive recorder sitting atop an otherwise empty table. Though oft exhausted - for various reasons that may or may not be related to Hythlodaeus or Azem - exasperation is nothing compared to the exhaustion wearing deep crevasses into his forehead and the gritting clench of his jaw.
The Convocation must have come to a decision.
With a sharp inhale, Hythlodaeus drops his belongings near the entrance and rushes over to his partner’s side.
“Are you well? What happened?”
“Azem is gone.” He doesn’t even look up.
“Azem is gone.” Emet-Selch repeats, broken and warped like an artefact left exposed to the elements for countless seasons.
“I’m sure -” Hythlodaeus has never seen such extreme despondence from him before and tries, gently and habitually, to moderate the man.
“No.” Emet-Selch - Hades - denies, with such an unyielding and harsh rejection that it makes Hythlodaeus’ heart weep. He would only speak so strongly if he believed his words with utter conviction.
Hythlodaeus’ breath catches at the low, pained rasp, placing a hand at the head of a nearby chair, preventing shock from stealing his balance.
If he can claim worry before, only dread might explain the way his heart stalls at this very moment.
Slowly and rigidly, Hythlodaeus forces himself into action. Lowering his hood, he removes his mask, tying it lightly in place, and tugs firmly at the tie binding his hair. Freed of the expected social restraints, he makes his way to Emet-Selch - still stationary and alone on the large seat.
At his back - unprotected, so very unlike his defensive and prickly nature - Hythlodaeus raises his hands to his partner’s broad shoulders. With a gentle press of his palms around the outer edge of his robe, he quickly recognizes the tightest of Emet-Selch’s muscles - all of them - and slides his hands onto soft skin, rubbing his thumb in steady, patient circles.
The muscles, bound as tightly as their owner, do not yield, and Emet-Selch remains leaning forward, elbows on the table, pressing his fists into his forehead.
The small comforts unsuccessful, Hythlodaeus changes his strategy; little else matters until his partner is calmed.
“Tell me.” He murmurs, shifting his attention from Emet-Selch’s shoulders to his scalp, twining his fingers into his soft, long locks. With delicate and precise motions, Hythlodaeus massages the sensitive skin lightly, smiling in relief as Emet-Selch at last shivers under his tender ministrations.
“Our course has been decided.”
Hythlodaeus follows Emet-Selch’s shifting gaze as he turns upon the distant horizon. Through the apartment window, the sky is yet a pleasant and comforting purple as day slips to night.
It would be easy to succumb to the lie of tranquil illusion, but Hythlodaeus knows the tales - as does everyone else - and they only worsen by the day. If Etheirys’ course continues, there will inevitably come a time that even the capitol rains blood and ash.
“We have discerned the fundamental ailment plaguing our star. In those regions first affected, its Ley Lines have been disrupted, permitting an external influence to take hold. After great deliberation, we of the Fourteen have come to a solution; the concept, Zodiark, is capable of reverting the aetherial flow to its intended state.” Emet-Selch explains mechanically, as if delivering a statement meant for the populace at large rather than the intimacy of home. “But His creation demands great sacrifice.”
Hythlodaeus closes his eyes, his hands slipping from Hades’ shoulders and back to his side. For the first time he can recall, Hythlodaeus trembles without chill, fear settling so deeply that it penetrates his very bones.
He half wants to cover his ears like a petulant child, but Emet-Selch continues his cold and distant recitation, just as the seasons march ever onward, regardless of individual whim.
“The Convocation calls for aid. The aether of half the lives on our star is necessary for His creation.”
The cost nigh collapses him, the seat catching Hythlodaeus’ weight before he can be sent tumbling in shock.
It explains nothing - and yet it is everything he needs to know - of Azem, of Emet-Selch, of the star’s future.
“. . .I see.” He responds at last, slipping into the open couch beside his warm, familiar partner -
The only thing warm in this cold, unfamiliar time.
Emet-Selch’s grip, perpetually clenched into a fist, does not loosen when Hythlodaeus takes his hand and so the Chief of the Bureau of the Architect instead envelops it wholly in his comforting grasp.
Half the population is necessary.
So many bright lives, glowing and brilliant at their peaks -
Lives far greater, far wiser, more creative, and with far more value than his.
Even now, as Hythlodaeus holds tightly onto the one he loves, he does not question.
Ever has he been one to support his friend’s decisions - Emet-Selch will surely support him in turn.
His heart hurts and his eyes burn and he would sooner run away than walk forward,
But that he might save even one individual -
Before the Convocation even asks, Hythlodaeus has his answer.
“Sir, are you alright? It’s time.”
An aide peeks her head in, interrupting with a painful truth; it is well past time, but this is Hythlodaeus’ last chance and he will not squander what little time remains for him.
“I’m fine, don’t you worry. It’ll be just a few more moments.”
“As you say.”
Though rightly disbelieving, his Second does not question further, returning to the lower levels currently being utilized as a sanctuary for the populace.
She is a fine woman, skilled and experienced. Bearing a calm, rational judgement that Hythlodaeus lacks, she will make a more than worthy successor.
With his recommendation and transfer of authority settled, Hythlodaeus begins.
He writes -
He writes and he writes again, at first by pen and then through a mailed message to be distributed utilizing personal messaging clients.
He erases the former and deletes the latter, repeatedly penning replacements that are each discarded in turn.
No words can rightly express his sorrow, his apologies, and his lamentation that he lacks power to do more - that he can not keep his promise to return to the star at their sides.
But there is one thing remaining within the good citizen Hythlodaeus, former Chief of the Bureau of the Architect’s power.
Doodling one of the annoying smilies that inevitably irritate Hades in the margin, Hythlodaeus takes out his personal device’s camera, snapping a shot. Scheduling its distribution for the morrow, when the sky shines blue, he leaves the original on his desk at the Bureau in hopes that at least one copy might survive to reach his friends later.
An early evening’s breeze - a weather all too normal for the chaotic circumstances - sneaks through the open window. The tips of a tiny, precious letter dance under its caress, though the paperweight holds it steady as it awaits discovery.
On its face, in a clumsy, yet determined hand, Hythlodaeus has written to those he loves from the depths of his heart:
I love you.