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The end comes with a burst of light.
Abarbluom knows not if the Aether which extended from his body was his own, or another creature’s entirely, locked away deep inside the recesses of his soul. A Lightwarden? A Voidsent? An Ascian? He feels it surge forward and upward as he hurls Ardbert’s final gift with all his might, the sensation rushing from the pit of his stomach, through his ribs, down his arm, to the tips of his fingers.
And yet, there’s a hesitation. A flinching moment of second-thought.
The axe leaves his grasp. A momentary lapse. A flash —
turning to meet golden eyes beneath the harsh light of Kholusian skies before they are swiftly averted —
the endless wood of Yx’Maja and her azure path of petals playfully kicked up with Garlean boots, an upturned smile viewed from afar —
a slender, aged wrist pinned by a large hand with a certain delicacy, black and gold sleeve contrasted against the white bark of the Lakeland foliage —
gloves and coat removed and draped over a chair within the Pendants of the Crystarium, so secret hands may roam freely —
The axe is aloft, and a bond to span eternity with it.
It cleaves almighty, blinding light through Hades’ form, and suddenly he is tumbling, turning; his faceless form unfathomable, his roars seemingly silent. The radiance which spilled forth from the wound gouged into the creature’s shape leaves a glittering trail not unlike starlight as he plummets, down, down. Claws grasping, reaching.
For Abarbluom. For a love that once was. But then all is dark.
A dazzling morning breaks over the broken phantom of Amaurot, its violet steps twinkling in the dawn. With the natural sunlight heralding our heroes, Abarbluom standing among them, he squints against it and raises the selfsame hand which ended this tale in resistance. It’s with some difficulty he lowers his arm, searching for anything — anyone — that might remain.
Emet-Selch patiently waits some yalms away, his gait belying his current state. He is fractured like glass, a veritable void cleft through his very torso, so vast one can see the broken skyline through it. Raising a trembling hand to the gash and dipping his head so slightly, he moves to remove his hood, posture straightened for the first time in what seems like a thousand lifetimes. He bravely meets Abarbluom’s shocked gaze with fluttering, tired eyes and starts to speak.
“The hero is triumphant,” Emet-Selch tries, fighting the waver in his voice, “and the villain is vanquished.”
He tries a step forward and immediately stumbles, falling to one knee with a clawed palm flat against the cool floor. In an instant Abarbluom is at his side, catching his shoulder with a firm hand as Emet is draped over his large frame, his wound exploding in sparkling Aether, struggling to catch the few breaths he has left. Everything is slipping through his fingers all at once, and he allows himself to lean into his lover’s breast, shutting his eyes against the warmth.
He gives a laboured chuckle into the fabric. “All good stories need to end.”
“I will not forget yours,” Abarbluom quickly tells him, not so quietly biting back a sob in his throat.
And Emet is quiet for a moment, as if struck directly in his heart.
Casting his weight onto Abarbluom’s grasp, he manages to rise to his feet once more, tracing a lingering claw over the other man’s jawline. To his own surprise, a small smile begins to tug at the corner of his own lips, and he feels as though a man reborn; a flame burning brightest mere minutes from being extinguished.
He reaches down to remove Abarbluom’s glasses while he kneels at Emet’s side, rendering him functionally blind, before dipping low to press a dry kiss against the other’s lips. It’s quick, and more of a gesture of principle than anything — one of two lovers saying goodbye.
“All I can ask of you is to remember,” he manages, a breath rattling in what remains of his chest, replacing the spectacles to the bridge of Abarbluom’s nose.
In a shaky gesture, he pulls his tearstone earring from his sleeve, slipping it into the other’s palm and pressing it firmly. There is a pause when they meet eyes for the last time, and Abarbluom manages a solemn, resolute nod, betraying the bunching tears overflowing down his chiselled face. The right words escape him, and all he can do is remain silent.
As Emet-Selch finally begins to dissipate, his Aether spent, satisfied as he breaks and fades, he finds his hand holding on, bunched in Abarbluom’s sleeve, wanting just another day here with him. The Ancient Hades sheds a final tear as his sundered lover fades from view, and he is lost to the Aetherial sea.