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Irreversibly shattered. Broken beyond recognition. Utterly destroyed. Gone.
Everyone, everything, all they have labored to repair. The efforts of nearly their entire population, naught more than ashes scattered in the wind. The mangled creatures that remain made Hades nauseous, with their souls barely strong enough to hold their forms together. A slither of what power they had not too long ago. When he looked upon them, he saw his own failure.
Then, on the moon, it was no different. Zodiark, sealed away. And with him, countless lives given for a hopeless cause. When he gazed upon humanity’s savior, his eyes sought out the color that shone brightest. Perhaps not for anyone but him. Maybe for the best. For what it’s worth, it’s a beacon of hope in the most beautiful shade of lavender. Always would Hades labor to see him smile, hear him laugh. But now, where his soul is crawling between others like a panicked colony of bugs, Hades can’t help but feel like he wronged him.
It pulls him under, inexorably, or maybe it’s the weight of his own sins. The burden on his shoulders, for heavy is the crown. Hades cannot tell the source of what tears him away, but where he ends up is as clear as a crystal that would house a brilliant concept, would his people still create.
The Underworld, and he is alone. Or so he feels, one singular soul as it is meant to be, whereas the countless spirits around him are malformed, pitiful excuses of what they ought to be. His domain and an eternal prison alike. Perhaps he’s deserving of solitude, yet this yearning feeling deep within claims otherwise. When he closes his eyes, he dreams of a warm embrace and hearing his name spoken with mirth. When they are open, he wishes to see long, silky lavender and eyes filled with joy that could dismantle him with a mere blink.
Sleep will do him good. Maybe for a century or some-few eons, though whatever it is, he prays it’s enough to stop his every ilm from aching. And maybe, just maybe, it will put an end to the regret he’s feeling, too, for never having said what he truly wanted.
—
...des…
Ah, again. Something to wake him and remind him of his own faulty existence. A cry for help he cannot answer, a plea he cannot grant. He may reach out, he has, but it could never be enough. He could never be enough. Too powerful, and yet too weak.
Ha…es…
Go. Go away. Leave him as he has left you waiting, wanting, hoping for salvation he could never bring. Guilt washes over his drifting form like a crashing wave that wants nothing more than to pull him deeper into the pit of despair and sorrow. He may wallow in self-pity there until time itself ends.
Hadeeees?
Emet-Selch flinches awake, arms crossed and legs angled. He blinks rapidly at the flash of purple that greatly stands out among the myriads of turquoise and blue. His arms unfurl so he may massage the space between his eyes with a finger and a thumb, groaning. “Hythlodaeus.” He sighs, unsure if he should be disappointed or relieved that his solitude was a trick by none other than his own mind. The usual perpetrator.
The man in question merely giggles, “Awake at last, I see! Did I ever tell you you talk while you sleep?”
“Plenty of times,” Emet-Selch assures, another world-weary sigh following. “What reason have you this time to wake me?” And he hopes it’s a good one.
Hythlodaeus, as is his way, merely chuckles and points a slender finger to the mirage showing the happenings on a shard. The Source this time, from the looks of All Saints’ wake being celebrated. With Azem’s shard in the midst of it, of course.
Hythlodaeus floats to Emet-Selch’s side. Emet-Selch doesn’t turn his head, yet keeps an eye on his lavender menace of a friend in his peripheral nonetheless. It’s some small manner of comfort, that after all he’s done, the doom and torture he’s brought upon countless souls, Hythlodaeus would still stay by his side as he always has. Close to him and with a smile no less. The aetherial sea is great and vast, and even with his soulsight, Emet-Selch wouldn’t pursue Hythlodaeus if he wished to stay away.
Yet here he is.
“I wished to ask about this festivity!” Hythlodaeus declares his reason for the disturbance earning him a harrumph from his frowning companion, “That is the matter of such utter importance that you had to wake me?”
Hythlodaeus nods, enthusiastic. Emet-Selch rolls his eyes, anything but.
Still, he gives in. He always does. “They call it “All Saints’ Wake”. Originally, ‘twas a night that filled the hearts of every denizen dwelling in Eorzea with fear. Great heroes of the realm, whom achieved canonization granted by the people’s so-called gods, were bid to dine with those that helped them to sainthood. While they were gone, the-” He startles when the weight of Hythlodaeus’ head is suddenly on his shoulder. In a zero gravity space, there’s only so much “weight” that can be put on him, but Hythloadeus sure is trying to lean on him.
Emet-Selch clears his throat and just lets it happen. He doesn’t mind it, he supposes. Not negatively at the very least. To distract himself, he raises a hand and snaps his fingers, weaving the aether around into small creatures. Merely for visualization. “...The gruesome creatures lurking in the shadows emerged and attacked with abandon, for none were around to aid the commonfolk and come to their rescue. Seeing as this happened only after night’s fall, they simply took to hiding in their homes, praying they’d remain safe within.”
Hythlodaeus shifts against him as he speaks up, “Forgive me the blatant observation, yet what I see before me, I wouldn’t necessarily consider frightened.”
“Yes, well,” Emet-Selch huffs, “I never claimed I was finished, did I?” Bit by bit, his head does end up turning, the natural tension in his brows easing up the moment he spots Hythlodaeus’ unbreakable, unrelenting smile. “Right you are, dear friend!” Curiously, the man clinging to him cocks his head to the side, “Do humor a man long gone and continue your tale, pretty please?”
“Now, you’re far from the only–!” Grumbling, groaning and complaining has never gotten him far with Hythlodaeus. Emet-Selch sighs, and this time in defeat, before looking back to the overjoyed mortals beyond the rift and his facsimile monsters beside them. “Yes, yes, as you wish… As they were the bane to my own existence, so, too, did self proclaimed adventurers make it their duty to drive off the demonic forces tormenting the people. Pah, they made a whole sport out of it, enjoying themselves even!” Adding insult to injury here, Emet-Selch raises his voice, but continues in a more subdued tone. A lazy wave of his hand creates a few faceless men and women to ward off his makeshift demons. Too familiar is he with the creation of what looks human but lacks spirit by now.
“In the end, the townspeople began to take it as inspiration, and lo and behold, they, too, saw amusement in what once plagued them.” One by one, his fingers close into a fist. And with each bending digit, a hero dematerializes into strings of aether once more, drifting out of his grasp and into the depths of the Underworld. He should dictate their path, by the mask still adorning his neck, but what is his duty if not a sorry excuse for a purpose?
His hand opens again, gesturing toward the festivities in Gridania Hythlodaeus felt the need to spy upon. Though Emet-Selch won’t blame him, seeing as there’s little else around to do but watch or sleep (even if he himself prefers the latter option, but to each their own). “And now, here they are, making light of a terror, year after year again. Likely, the original meaning of this day is lost to most of them, for they celebrate now only to wear these ridiculous costumes and stuff their mouths with candy. Truly, their genius is beyond me! Inconceivable! Truly and utterly–” Emet-Selch goes on with his tangent until he feels something on his head.
His open mouth closes and he slowly reaches up to take the object partially hanging into his vision. Turns out it’s a large, pointy hat with a pretty much gigantic flap to it. With a raised brow, he turns to Hythlodaeus once more. “What is this?” Emet-Selch asks. Hythlodaeus’ grin widens as he grabs the hat and puts it back where he’d first conjured it, “Part of a costume, I’d assume!” His claim is backed by pointing at someone wearing the exact same thing on the Source.
Emet-Selch grumbles as he insists it stays off. To ensure it stays that way, he scatters the aether it’s made of back into the aetherial sea, to which Hythlodaeus gasps. “Oh, come now! I worked so very hard to create it and you would not even honor it? Surely, you’ve worn garb like this before!” He insists, chuckling despite seemingly being offended. All a bluff, of course.
“And even if I did, who said it was for my own enjoyment?”, he waves Hythlodaeus off, “But I’m sure you’d greatly appreciate the tricks, treats and all else that comes with this day.” His arms cross when Hythlodaeus lets go (when did he start hugging it, actually?), yet he keeps a close eye on him floating closer to the festivities on the fraction of their star. “As do I, my friend…” His smile persists, his voice remains upbeat, and yet, and yet… Emet-Selch knows there’s yearning behind it. To learn and experience these things he may only ever watch from afar, and that until the end of time itself.
…Gladly would Hades grant him these things, the happiness he deserves. He should’ve been the one to save him, should have been there when their brethren would’ve been freed from Lord Zodiark to catch Hythlodaeus and hold him. He should have been the one to wrap him in his arms and promise him that it’s fine, now that it’s all over.
And over it is where none of these things happened and they never will. He can never give Hythlodaeus all he was supposed to, and never will he be able to truly make him happy. But he can try, can’t he?
The last thing he can give to him is all he has left, that being himself.
With a mute exhale from deep within, Emet-Selch momentarily casts aside the disdain for himself. A snap echoes through the lifestream, being all it takes to clad Hythlodaeus in a guise fit for the occasion. For himself? Well, the hat will have to be enough. Complete with horns, small wings and a pointed tail, the devilish lavender creature’s eyes inspect himself. It takes a moment for him to register, and it must feel terribly disorienting for someone who’s not taken off the robe for thousands of years, but it can’t be too bad taking into consideration the way he beams. The sun would surely be jealous of his radiance and the warmth it exudes, that pretty smile of his. It came to him naturally, always, but only rarely was it so bright.
He’s sure they’ll have a repeat of this next year, and Starlight as well, Heavensturn… But truth be told, he doesn’t mind.
Not when this is all he can give to the one who’s ever been most deserving of it.