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azems-familiar · 2 months

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"Can you just- for a minute, can you pretend that I mean something to you?'

this. uhhhhhh. got a LOT longer than i intended it to, and also had a lot less angst, though if you consider the other pov there is definitely so much more. and also with literally all the context. anyway. have 5.6k words of emetraha, because i have brainrot and the prompt worked so well for them i had to choose between multiple options.

The Exarch being away is the last thing Emet-Selch expects when he arrives at the Crystarium for their usual discussion and debate over tea. The man is bound to the Tower; while he can leave, it weakens him, and thus in all the time Emet-Selch has known him he has only left Lakeland’s borders on the rare occasion, usually to treat with Eulmore (prior to Vauthry’s birth, of course) or in the event of some emergency. According to the Captain of the Guard, however (who had seemed faintly amused when he asked as to the Exarch’s whereabouts), he left the Crystarium three days ago to make the trek to Rak’tika to meet with the Night’s Blessed. The matter of this meeting, she informs Emet-Selch, is something the Exarch himself can decide whether or not to disclose to a non-citizen, and he is not expected to return for another four days, but she can offer Emet-Selch the approximate location of his destination, should he so desire to bother their leader directly.

He does, in fact, so desire. The endless waiting is the most intolerable part of any Rejoining, and while the millennia have gotten him quite accustomed to patience, he is terribly bored, and there is only so much he can do. Should he push the shard too quickly, the Light could consume it entirely before the Source is prepared, leaving a hollow void as useless as the Thirteenth - and Emet-Selch has no intention of repeating Igeyorhm’s mistakes. Thus the necessity of filling his time with activity unrelated to his plotting - and the draw of his weekly meetings with the Exarch. It has been some time since he sparred with someone near his equal in intellect, after all.

Of all places near a Warden, Rak’tika is less burdensome than others; beneath the boughs the shadows are deep enough to provide some measure of relief from the omnipresent Light and its burn. Thus Emet-Selch does not particularly mind teleporting to a location just outside the Night’s Blessed’s fort and asking after the Exarch once again from their sentries. What he does mind is being informed that the Exarch is late and has yet to arrive, and that they’re considering sending scouts out to search for him if he does not arrive within another few hours.

Emet-Selch sighs. Their scouts are near-guaranteed to be ineffective fools, and he is admittedly curious as to what could delay the Exarch, which means the solution, while distasteful, is an obvious one. “No need,” he informs the sentry, a slight bite to the words. “I will find him myself.”

Truly, how frustrating. And all because he desired a cup of tea and a stimulating conversation.

With the star as shattered as it is, his sight is without equal, and though the presence of the Light somewhat hinders him it takes very little effort all the same to find a shadow to hide in and look into the aether, with a range that far outstrips his usual vision. There’s a glaring brilliance in the sky that reflects off the currents in the ground and air, fragmenting his sight and making it difficult to pick out specifics, but after a moment of squinting against it he catches a hint of the Exarch’s familiar aether, far away and fluctuating with some kind of stress. It could simply be the knowledge that he is late for his meeting, Emet-Selch allows, but there is something…a greater concentration of Light around him. Sin eaters, perhaps? It would be unfortunate indeed were the great Crystal Exarch to be so waylaid.

…Emet-Selch has yet to have an opportunity to see the man in combat. His skills as a mage are whispered about in the Crystarium, but much of what he has accomplished can easily be attributed to his command over the Tower - which, Emet-Selch has to admit, does make him a mage of some high caliber. The Exarch is capable of directing the Tower to perform feats Emet-Selch had not expected from a Sundered soul, and his attempts at turning Allag’s voidgate technology into a summoning spell speak to his grasp on the theoretical. Combat magic, however, is an entirely different beast, and Emet-Selch is curious. And perhaps any observations he might make could unlock some of those secrets the Exarch so furiously guards.

Thus decided, he spirits himself away through the shadows, off in the Exarch’s direction. It takes four attempts for him to actually reach the man; when he finally does, he steps out of the rift into the scene of a small massacre. An overturned wagon lays sprawled across the major path through the Greatwood, crates of supplies and possessions scattered about, some torn open. Several bodies, viis all, have been flung about, deep wounds across multiple of them, marked by claws and swords, no life left in them whatsoever, and scorch marks litter the ground, patches of grass smoldering still. Smoke is heavy in the air, smoke and the spark of fading Light aether and the metallic tang of blood, a rather unsavory pall, and without any wind there is nothing to disperse it.

Emet-Selch arrives just in time to watch the Exarch, standing in the middle of the carnage, gesture with his staff and send a bolt of flame through the last remaining sin eater.

For all that he makes a heroic figure, robes bright and staff gleaming, his body language is anything but. His shoulders are tense and hunched, his fingers too-tight around his staff, his skin pale where it is visible, his legs trembling slightly. And curled against his side, held there by his flesh-and-blood arm, is a tiny viis child with wavy grey hair and small ears pressed flat against the sides of her head, her fists clinging to the Exarch’s robe, an expression on her face that is the kind of fear that has passed through the event horizon of utter terror and morphed into stillness again. Blood streaks her cheek and one arm - a gash in her forehead, another on her bicep. From her size she cannot be any older than three or four years.

“Well, well,” Emet-Selch murmurs, sweeping his eyes over the bodies - yes, that one, with the similarly-pale hair, bears enough resemblance it could be her mother. “So it was sin eaters that delayed you. I wonder, did you involve yourself before or after you knew the child yet lived?”

He takes a few steps out from behind the tree he’d teleported up against, carefully skirting the edges of the Light dappling the ground, bringing him within two or three yalms of the Exarch, though he has to pick his way around the detritus of this family’s existence as he does. The girl’s eyes snap to him as he does, but she doesn’t move except to lean her cheek against the Exarch’s shoulder. There is a rather worrying glassiness in her gaze, if he were to concern himself with such things.

The Exarch’s breaths are coming in short, shallow pants, he notices absently. Pain? “...before,” and the man’s voice is tight, raspy. Emet-Selch knows him well enough by now to know when it is in fact pain that burdens him, and this- despite his lack of visible injury, he must have put himself in harm’s way. “I would not chance passing by if someone yet lived and abandon them to such a fate.” He breathes out, shakily, and returns his staff to his back, brushing his crystal hand gently over the girl’s hair. “...you’re safe for now, little one.”

The child does not respond.

“I believe she may have a head injury,” Emet-Selch informs the Exarch, though he has no particular reason to do so. Why should he care if a single Sundered child lives or dies? And yet…it would be too easy to recall the terrified children on the streets of Amaurot, fleeing the beasts they could not contain. “You may wish to tend to it, should you desire her survival. Considering your boundless compassion for these poor creatures you consider mankind, I assume you do.”

He paces a few more steps away and crouches down to absently rifle through one of the crates - dried fruits and meats, a sack of nuts, a small store of root vegetables, nothing particularly interesting. Behind him he can hear the Exarch murmuring a quiet thank you before the aether ripples with the telltale shimmer of a healing spell; Emet-Selch does not watch, just moves on to investigate the rest of the supplies, half out of curiosity and half because it gives him something to do while he waits. Perhaps the Exarch will be more inclined to conversation once the child has been seen to and calmed.

Perhaps, Emet-Selch considers, he ought to offer the Exarch healing for whatever injuries he bears - but he has never been much of a healer, and there is a difference between providing some oblique aid to his enemy that they may continue their game and directly intervening in affairs that could hinder the Rejoining. The Exarch may be the most intriguing and capable enemy he has had the chance to face in quite some time, but he still stands solidly against the Ardor, and he has never entertained the delusion that the Exarch would set aside their enmity to join with him, no matter that he would make such an excellent addition to their cause. No matter that Emet-Selch has of late found himself wondering more and more what the Exarch would be like, were he Unsundered, soul as bright as it should be. As clever as he is now, Emet-Selch can only imagine what sort of mind he would have were the star whole - enough intelligence to rival Azem and their greatest researchers, he would think.

…it is a futile thought, he knows. But he does not intend to forget the soft rose color of the Exarch’s soul, and should he chance to see it again, when he and his brethren have succeeded- well.

For a few moments, the only sounds are Emet-Selch’s footsteps and quiet rummaging and the Exarch’s breathing, still too harsh and short. With little left to investigate, he eventually stands and stretches absently, turning back to the Exarch - as he watches the man finishes casting another healing spell and the last of the wounds across the girl’s skin close and fade. Not something one with no healing training whatsoever could accomplish, and Emet-Selch raises an eyebrow, musing. His power comes from the Tower, of course, but the knowledge of how to use it - perhaps it was found in the archives. The Exarch does seem to have few hobbies beyond studying and assisting his people.

Before he can question the Exarch, however, there’s a rustling of brush, the sound of wings on the air, and four middling-sized eaters wander out onto the path, drawn straight towards the Exarch and his living aether - and perhaps that would mean little at all, but one of the large winged eaters, bearing sword and shield and the ability to force a transformation, Light pulsing through its white-marble body in waves, descends from the sky, sword held in front of it and gilt wings spread to their fullest extent. The Exarch spits a curse, drawing his staff once again, and sets his feet, and the little girl whimpers and closes her eyes.

Emet-Selch leans against the overturned wagon and watches, untouched by the eaters. Their Light is antithetical to his Darkness, indeed, the brush of it burns like hot oil, but so too is his Darkness more than enough to quench their Light, and they have the intelligence to know his aether would not sate their hunger. He is of no danger as long as he does not come face-to-face with a Lightwarden.

The Exarch does not have that same assurance, and the tension in the corners of his mouth, his pursed lips, speak to his own knowledge of such. But Emet-Selch wishes to observe, and he would truly be a fool were he to intervene now, when this will give him an excellent view of how his enemy handles being pressed and when actively fighting back against the Light, within the Light, would exhaust him far more than he is willing to extend himself for a Sundered soul who would oppose the Ardor.

The Exarch takes three steps back, dodging clawed swipes from two of the lesser eaters, and casts a spell - ice that freezes one of the eaters in place, something far less intensive than the fire he had been calling moments ago. The trembling in his muscles is more pronounced now, as is the sweat beading on his plaster-pale skin, and Emet-Selch takes a step of his own forward despite himself, unease stirring low in his gut. The Exarch is meant to be his opponent in the long game, not to get himself killed by sin eaters over a mere child unlikely to survive to adulthood before the shard is lost-

The greater eater swings its sword in a wide, sweeping motion, and the Exarch grits his teeth and raises his staff, summoning a shimmering barrier into existence around him, a spell clearly adapted from the Allagan defense technology he uses to defend the Crystarium. An impressive display of skill - and though the lesser eaters throw themselves at it, it continues to hold, even as the Exarch shifts and begins to mutter a teleportation incantation under his breath, gathering his aether to spirit himself and the child away. A wise decision, in the face of this threat, Emet-Selch thinks, though it leaves the eaters free to advance on the nearby village. The Exarch’s vaunted compassion, it seems, does not extend to risking his own life.

The greater eater floats back a couple of fulms, raises its sword again, and with little fanfare slices the blade through the air again - and this time, a bright bolt of Light sears forward off it, sharp enough Emet-Selch is momentarily dazed, his sight vaguely scorched by the intensity. The Exarch’s barrier distorts, twists, and collapses in on itself in a rush of aether, the distraction enough to break his teleportation spell before he can execute it, and though the lesser eaters hiss in something that approximates joy, they do not move. Instead they leave it to their seeming commander to lunge forward with a blinding rush, sword held at the ready.

The girl screams, terror so all-consuming Emet-Selch can nearly feel it. Something cracks-

A sound claws itself free from the Exarch’s throat that sounds nearly inhuman. Emet-Selch blinks, then blinks again, and - the Exarch has thrown his crystal arm, claimed by the Tower, between the eater’s sword and the girl he carries, and the tip of the blade is embedded in the sapphire crystal, leaving fissures spreading up the arm from the point of impact and a deep gouge in the flat of his arm just above his wrist. Emet-Selch sucks in a breath despite himself, because the Exarch may be tied to the Tower but that does not mean he cannot feel pain, and the force it would take to shatter the parts of him he has given over-

“Emet-Selch.” The Exarch’s voice is hoarse to the point of near-unrecognizability, taut with pain and desperation, stumbling along the edge of begging. He has never, ever spoken such in Emet-Selch’s presence. “Can you just- for just one moment, will you please pretend that I mean something to you?”

For- for some reason, Emet-Selch feels the words like an impact hard enough to steal the air from his lungs, like a constriction around his throat, like the knife of his loneliness he has lived with for so long has not only driven between his ribs but twisted. The eater draws its sword back once again, raising it for the kill - or to attempt to turn both man and child, more like. He thinks of- afternoons spent deep in debate over the minutiae of the Tower’s function and the technology the Crystarium survives on, Allag’s history and the actions of Emet-Selch’s own order. Of the lounge they typically take their tea in and how it has been Umbrally-aligned for decades, despite the extra drain that would put on the Tower’s resources in this climate. Of how eager the Exarch is to present Emet-Selch with new volumes of theater, whenever one of his people manages to find or pen one. Of the indisputable fact that this enmity between them, this game they play, has caught and held his attention in a way nothing has since his son died and he once again gave up on the Sundered entirely.

…he is here, in this Light-suffused forest, is he not?

Pretend that I mean something to you.

That is truly not so difficult, in the grand scheme of things. The Exarch yet has secrets Emet-Selch has not divined, after all, and it would be a shame to strike him from the game board before they are revealed.

In the breath between heartbeats, Emet-Selch steps through the rift and puts himself neatly between the eaters and the Exarch. A simple twist of his will brings up an unwavering shield of translucent violet - the greater eater’s sword bounces harmlessly off it, the lesser eaters’ claws are a barely-noticeable scratching, and he could maintain this indefinitely, as long as no great amount of Light was brought to bear against it or him, but considering the sound of the Exarch’s ragged breathing and the quiet, poorly-stifled noises of pain, he doubts the man has the focus to teleport at the moment, and- well. Perhaps he finds himself annoyed, and the loss of five eaters will hardly matter as long as the Wardens remain. To truly fight back will drain him, yes, but it is difficult to care.

He musters his aether against the heavy, suffocating Light, lifts his hand, and snaps his fingers.

It’s an easy visualization. Large, dagger-shaped blades of shadow leap forth from him and slam into the eaters, then burst in a rush of Dark aether that instantly vaporizes the lesser eaters and sends their commander crumpling to the ground, sword and shield both falling from its hands and fading into the aether. Emet-Selch takes a step forward, extends his hand, and summons a bolt of Darkness to send directly at its chest, and that last pulse of aether is enough to dissipate it as well - for which he is grateful, because the moment he drops his hand and lets go of the shield he can feel the drain, can feel the Light on the back of his neck, as hot as the desert sun, burning his bones.

Heavens. The things he does for-

Emet-Selch shakes his head, rubs at his temples, and breathes through the discomfort. Brushes invisible dust from his palms. Turns back to the Exarch and crosses the space between them to take the man’s crystal arm in his hands, shifting his vision to that second sight to peer at the aether currents within. They’re pale and distorted, entirely broken wherever the cracks have spread, and he grimaces at the sight, absently running one finger carefully over the edge of the gouge where the blade impacted.

“This will be difficult to mend, Exarch,” he murmurs, low. “You have done a great deal of damage to your aether.” He sighs, shaking his head. “Give me the child.”

The girl is crying, tiny little hiccups muffled by the Exarch’s robe, but she doesn’t fight back when he hands her over, and Emet-Selch takes her carefully in his arms and settles her against his hip, the motion familiar. Relieved thusly of his burden, the Exarch seems to- shrink, almost, resignation and exhaustion and pain weighing him down until he is but a fraction of the man Emet-Selch knows. “...if you decide our enmity ends here-” he starts, his voice rough with emotion and agony, “at the least take her to the Crystarium, so she can live what life she has left.”

For a moment, Emet-Selch ignores him entirely. “Shh,” he murmurs to the girl instead, drawing on old memories of the mortal children he’s raised - both those he loved and those he did not - of children from long-ago Amaurot which he had on occasion been made to entertain. He had not minded, in truth; they had been discussing having children of their own, once. He lifts his free hand to gently stroke through her hair and over her ears, swaying her back and forth and humming snatches of an ancient lullaby until she quiets, the sniffles fading into shaky breaths. Only then does he carefully cast the lightest of sleep spells over her small frame - she seems unharmed, between the Exarch’s healing and protection, but distress will only keep her compliant for so long, and better to deliver her into the hands of her people docile than clinging to an injured man - or worse, him.

He does not- care about one lone child. He does not. The Exarch merely asked him to pretend, and thus he shall.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he finally says, directed at the Exarch, and heaves a sigh, turning to look at the other man again. “Come, then. There is little I can do for your physical injuries - I leave the frailties of your mortal flesh in the hands of your fellow mortals - but I believe I can do something to mend your arm, if only in part. But make no mistake; you will owe me for this.”

The Exarch laughs, pained and cracked, wincing and curling forward over his ribs as he does, the breath wheezing out of him. “...I shall have to break out my stash of emergency plays from Voeburt, then,” he manages after a moment, and Emet-Selch raises his eyebrows.

“You have plays from Voeburt?” he asks, torn between impressed and irritated that the man has never mentioned this before - and then he shakes himself. This is hardly the time. “Never mind that, I am not so easily distracted by theater as you believe me to be. A favor, Exarch, though I will allow you this: as I did not endanger mine own people in this intervention, neither will I ask you to risk yours. Now come with me before you collapse. I have no desire to be the target of your head chirurgeon’s ire when your heroic, self-sacrificial bent is certainly no fault of mine.”

“...then it must be before the endgame, I would think…” the Exarch rasps out, leaning heavily against his staff and taking a few shaking steps. “I look forward to seeing what you will demand of me. And to watching the chirurgeons yell at you shortly.”

Emet-Selch rolls his eyes and bites the inside of his cheek to keep from retorting, though he would dearly like to. Instead he shifts the girl in his arms to free one hand, reaches out, and wraps his hand around the Exarch’s upper arm - his flesh-and-blood one - and unceremoniously yanks all three of them through a rather rough teleport, which he would feel slightly bad about were he not annoyed. The moment they appear in the Crystarium’s infirmary, the Exarch is staggering sideways into his chest, and it is a sign of his exhaustion more than anything else that he simply stays there, trembling and wan, leaning heavily with his face tucked against Emet-Selch’s shoulder.

Emet-Selch lets him, and does not think about why.

The head chirurgeon, as it turns out, does not yell at him, though only because of the sleeping child in his arms. Instead she scolds both of them in a furious but low voice before guiding them to one of the few private rooms and immediately fussing over the Exarch; another one of the infirmary’s staff comes to relieve Emet-Selch of the child, whose name, according to the Exarch, is Lyna. Emet-Selch accompanies them to put her to bed in another room where they can examine her, and he suggests with an idleness he doesn’t quite feel that they leave her in the care of the Exarch, once he is fit for it. She is a terrified child, after all, and she will want the familiar. Beyond that, she is likely to consider the man who saved her life as safe, a courtesy he doubts she will be so willing to give strangers.

The chirurgeons seem surprised, but they do not disagree, and he is quite satisfied with that. The girl thus dealt with, he returns to find the Exarch with some faint color returned to his cheeks, enduring a lecture from his healer about what sorts of movements and magical exertions he’s allowed while his ribs and aether reserves recover. It is not a lecture Emet-Selch has been on the receiving side of in quite some time, and for that he is quite grateful. Eventually, however, the Exarch is free, and Emet-Selch convinces him to return straight to the Tower rather than checking in on Lyna mostly by not giving him a choice in the matter, a quite useful and effective strategy. The Exarch is too exhausted, it seems, to truly argue back.

It is not until they are ensconced in the Umbrally-aligned lounge - which finally eases the strain of holding his essence together under the Light’s endless onslaught, given the energy he’d expended - and the Exarch is seated on the couch that Emet-Selch sighs. “Well, very well then, let us get this supremely unpleasant business over with. I do not ask you to trust me, merely that you do not intervene; if this does not work as I intend I will be the one most suited to undoing it, and should you distract me in the moment of casting I cannot predict what might occur. It takes only a passing thought to disrupt this magic.”

“...might I know what it is you’re doing?” the Exarch asks as he drops down to sit next to him on the couch. Even with the cowl hiding most of his face, he is clearly exhausted beyond belief and still in no small amount of pain. His voice is thin and strained, wavering.

Emet-Selch takes his crystal arm into his lap, running his fingers over its surface, carefully tracing the bumps and textured surface, bringing to mind the complex web of aether currents the Exarch has over many years bored into the crystal. He thinks of patterns and fractals and facets, the structure of crystals, the wholeness of the arm itself, and he draws ever-so-slightly on the Lifestream itself, unwilling to pour his own Dark-aspected aether into this. “Weaving the fabric of reality,” he murmurs, only half-paying attention to the words, eyes falling closed. Creation without a set concept is a risk, especially without an encyclopedic knowledge of that which one wishes to create, but beyond the cool weight of the crystal in his lap right now there are things Emet-Selch knows that will make up for the lack.

He knows the way the Exarch moves - the way he writes, the way he gestures, the way his fingers curl around a mug of tea or a pen or an Allagan relic. He knows the gentleness this arm is capable of, as evidenced by how tenderly he’d healed Lyna; he knows, too, the strength in it, as unyielding as the stone it is made of. Near seven decades he has watched this Exarch, has seen the transformation progress as the Tower takes its due for the magicks he wields, and beyond all academic knowledge he knows the essence of the man in front of him. They are but two sides of the same coin, after all, bound by duty to be in opposition and yet terribly alike, he and the Crystal Exarch.

The power of the Lifestream is a bright, raging thing, a river even he, with his rare gift of control over its eddies, only skims the surface of unless he has no other choice. He lets the pulse of life itself swirl around him, pool beneath his hands, and he holds the fullness of his understanding of this broken limb in his mind and snaps his fingers.

When he opens his eyes, exhaling slowly to let the energies of the Lifestream fade away, the Exarch’s arm is whole and unbroken once more, only a faint cluster of hairline cracks remaining where the worst of the breakage had been. For a moment he pays them no mind - he had not expected the magic to entirely mend the arm, after all, considering he was treading the line between working from a concept and working from belief - instead focusing to once again study the aether. The Exarch’s exhaustion means the flow of aether through his arm is sluggish at best, not ideal for confirming the recreation worked correctly, and- well. Emet-Selch has done this once before, has he not?

He pours a small fraction of his own aether into the man’s arm, watching as it bolsters the flow - there are a few minor hiccups but with some time those will, he hopes, smooth out - and the Exarch lets out a heavy sigh of relief and slumps sideways, tension leaving his body in a rush as he drops his head to rest against Emet-Selch’s shoulder. Foolish of him, Emet-Selch thinks, to let his guard down so around an enemy, whether they have been playing this game for decades or no. He sweeps one thumb absently back and forth across the now-smooth crystal, shifting slightly to let the Exarch’s warm weight settle more comfortably against his side, and shakes his head, reaching one hand up to carefully adjust the Exarch’s cowl before it can slide too far back from his face.

Perhaps it is the state he is in, pushing him to think so little of being vulnerable. It would be unsporting to take advantage of it.

For a few moments there is silence. Emet-Selch lets his aether settle and taper when the Exarch finally stirs again - which is good, he had begun to worry if the man was falling asleep - and sighs once more. He does not straighten, but he does extend his arm and twist it carefully back and forth, testing. Most of the motion is smooth, but his wrist hitches when he rotates it, and Emet-Selch frowns.

Ah, of course. The remaining cracks will need to be filled in if they are to be kept from causing problems. He looks more closely at them, admittedly curious - it is strange, as much as he had not expected the magic to fully succeed, for it to work as cleanly as it had only to leave such a small blemish behind - only for a cold weight to settle low in his stomach as he does.

Because he recognizes the pattern. The lines of it are thin and simplistic, barely visible against the veining, but there all the same - a constellation cut into crystal with such perfect precision it cannot be anything but a mark.

A constellation. His constellation, the sign of his seat.

Perhaps his mind had wandered during the creation after all.

He exhales heavily through his nose, swallows, and does not say a word, and the Exarch must be too tired to notice, because he simply rubs his flesh hand over the constellation and stays tilted into Emet-Selch’s side. “...thank you for this kindness, Emet-Selch,” he says very softly, his voice still somewhat raw but much of the pained tension from earlier missing.

“It was not a kindness,” Emet-Selch reminds him pointedly. They are enemies; it would not do for the Exarch to forget such, not when they yet have all the endgame to play, and he remains deeply curious how the Exarch intends to thwart his plans. “I will expect you to repay the favor when I ask for it, Exarch. You have ever kept your promises. ‘Twould be a shame indeed for that to change now.”

“I do not intend to let my debts go unpaid, or any kindnesses go unanswered, Emet-Selch,” the Exarch answers in a similarly deliberate tone. “Regardless of which they were meant as. But this was a kindness even if you did not intend it to be such - I would have been in pain for the rest of my life without your intervention.” This, Emet-Selch knows to be true - there would have been no other way of healing or regenerating the crystal without creation magicks, and thus the wound would simply have remained, and while it would not have killed the Exarch it would have always been a hindrance. “So- thank you.”

…if the Exarch wishes to think of it as a kindness, then Emet-Selch supposes there is little harm in allowing him to. Perhaps he can leverage it for some kind of knowledge or further concession later on. When playing such a tense game against such a clever and focused foe, with the eighth Rejoining as the stakes, he would be a fool to discard any potential advantage.

(Even if he is only doing what the Exarch asked of him. Pretend that I mean something to you. How could he act any other way, in the face of such a plea? It does not mean anything - not for them, not for his purpose here, not for his duty.

Perhaps, if he reminds himself enough times, he will not risk forgetting that truth.)

His people, his city, and his star hang in the balance, after all.

But for the moment, he can allow the Exarch to remain leaning against his side, a warmth that eases the ever-present ache of grief and loneliness in his chest, and perhaps the Exarch is not the only one who would like to pretend.

#ffxiv #emetraha #exselch #emet selch #g'raha tia #shadowbringers #ffxiv fic #my fic #i'll post this one on ao3 Later because. um. it got long. but yknow. here you are! unpolished and unedited and whatever #asked and answered

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autumnslance · 6 months

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A new Tales from the Dawn, with the voted characters...and are we surprised? Hythlodaeus is our POV, as he avoid his "industrious secretary" to head to the Capitol, where he meets familiar(ish) faces of the Convocation in search of his friend.

Before the narrative moves to his perspective on a fateful moment during the Final Days....and then the Encore itself.

You can select Azem/WoL's (binary only) gender on this one, per usual.

My own immediate reactions under the cut:

Poor Byregot.

Definite confirmation both Mitron and Lohgrif were women in the ancient days.

COUSINS?! YOU WANT ME TO THINK LAHA AND IGGY WERE COUSINS?! ...Well anyway, her reincarnations aren't. *continues lowkey trash shipping.*

Twist that knife in with Elidibus why dontcha. Obviously takes place right after Pandaemonium from the convo, and it's the reason for Iggy & Laha's convo, apparently.

Hermes is just. Always having a neurotic breakdown of one kind or another, huh?

And Emet-Selch, and how well these two know one another, while keeping Azem a mystery.

The ending feels like another reference but it's 3am as I read this so haven't the time to delve. But they had to get some blatant things in and it was nice regardless.

Overall, not a bad way to wrap up the final story of these characters.

#final fantasy xiv #Tales from the Dawn #Amaurot #Ancients #Ascians #Convocation of Fourteen #Hythlodaeus #Azem #Emet-Selch #Hermes #Elidibus #Mitron #Lohgrif #Lahabrea #Igeyorhm

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tokwaling · 3 months

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Disco Elysium inspired dnd portraits :) all seen from the pov of Quin characters in order: Quin: belongs to me Ageratina: @malach-te Keros: n/a, does not belong to me Emet: @bunnyblublue Verity: @akibarn Spring Breeze: @3d-blast Viktor: @malach-te

#artists on tumblr #my art #dnd character #dnd art #dnd #dnd oc #disco elysium #digital art #original character #oc #oc art #dungeons and dragons #dungeons and dragons art

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sunderedazem · 2 months

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14 - bitter

Ancients? :)

You KNEW what you were asking for. So have some Elidibus POV of Azem and Emet-selch's break-up before the Sundering.

There are shards of red on the steps, and utter silence in the square. He blinks. Etheriys feels a little like a dream now, with the soft roaring of so many souls dulling his senses- but this sting of sorrow and shame he feels, distantly. It aches in a way he's sure he's forgotten, almost. And yet he and all those within yet remember…

The people are watching (not saved- but soon) stricken, frozen - all but one, whose cowl hangs down his back, whose silver staff is still tight-gripped in white-knuckled fingers. Who is walking away with a snarl on his lips and tears streaming down his bare face. Who has before the entirety of Amaurot denounced the Convocation, who has accused them of forgetting their duty, who has- has accused him of bias-

They had to save the star. They have to save the star. And He was their answer. Is their answer. The roaring in his ears will never cease, now. He thinks the stretch of his very self was a small price to pay for the blue of the sky. He knows it. He volunteered.

So many had. And yet-

Azem storms out of the city center with his staff aglow in Light, wreathed round himself like a shield against- something, and he does not look back. There is only the sway of his long white braid as he departs, and Elidibus- watches it. Watches the narrow shoulders and frail stature recede into the distance, until shattered and broken and burning buildings obscure him from sight completely. Watches as one of Themis's closest friends turns his back on Zodiark and all the salvation he promises.

Elidibus does not understand it. He- remembers. Azem had pleaded with the Convocation to stay Zodiark's summoning, to give him time to find an alternative. Half the lives of their people was too awful a price for him - and Elidibus cannot condemn him for that love he has for their star and people, cannot condemn him for his dissent. Azem is the Traveler - the Shepherd. It would go against everything his seat stands for to agree. Lahabrea had not agreed - nor had Pashtarot - but in the end, Elidibus could not be partial. And thus Azem was given his time to find another way. But should Amaurot begin to burn- then they would have to act.

But he returned too late. Three days too late. And his solution was…incomplete. An effort commendable, to be sure. A solution worthy of gentle praise, and perhaps use later. But the star had fallen to ruin, and Zodiark could restore it. And then- then the star could restore their people. And Zodiark would save them all. He would save them.

He will. No matter if one man refuses to understand. Elidibus and Zodiark will save him too.

No matter how bitter that salvation tastes.

There are shards of red on the steps. Emet-selch is kneeling among them, his hands shaking, gathering the pieces one at a time. He is not crying, Elidibus thinks. Not yet, at least. He seems more stunned than anything. Of course, he is not the only one, if the way the silence still rings deafening has any meaning.

Azem has always had a temper, though it was not often apparent. But this- this by far had been the worst outburst Elidibus had ever seen from anyone, let alone from Azem. And worst of all, it had been a willful misinterpretation- a cruel misinterpretation, made solely to make a point about their plans to sacrifice the lesser creatures of the star to return those given to Zodiark to life. And- and perhaps Azem even had a point, if a misguided one.

He had always been thin of aether, incapable of all creation magicks no matter how simple, and sickly for it besides. His elevation to the Fourteenth Seat had been long delayed by a discussion of his health and the risks posed to his own wellbeing, rather than any disagreement with regard to his temperament or accomplishment as a researcher and theorist both. But to use his own recurring illness - which Emet-selch had cared for him through countless times - as a bludgeon to say that the Convocation must therefore count him among those lesser creatures-

I too am thin of aether. Weak, sickly- imperfect. Incapable of creation. Are these the only requirements for you to be willing to slaughter living beings in order to undo the willing sacrifice of half our people? I gave you another option! Those who are thin of aether - thinner than me! - may use this dynamis to restore our star, and you dismiss their capabilities save for their worth as livestock? You swore to hearken unto my solution, Emet-selch- you promised me you would have faith I would find a way and now you- you reject what I have found in favor of dishonoring your seat and returning the dead to life? Fine then! I count myself among these lesser beings freely, for I am more akin to them than you. And should you wish to wet Etheriys with their blood, you will start with me. And you will draw the blade across my throat with your own hands.

But even if he had a point- Emet-selch had only stared, utterly lost for words. The entire square had been quieter than death. Even Zodiark had seemed to still. And then, caught in the folly of sentiment, Emet-selch had stepped forward, had reached out a hand, had called-

Helios- Helios, please-

There had been a whirl of black, a flash of red- and then Azem's mask had shattered on the wall above Emet-selch's head, had shattered into shards of his office even as his sigil had glared red over silver eyes.

I am Azem, Emet-selch. I revoke the privilege for you to call me by my personal name- not only do I not know this man you have become, but us lesser creations have no names to speak of, now do we?

Elidibus had not known how to stop him. Emet-selch had just dropped his hand, jerking a little as if he had been struck by a physical blow.

And then Azem had gone.

And now he is gone. And Emet-selch is on his knees, gathering the shards of that shattered mask, cradling them carefully, as if he could piece together what was broken. As if he could repair a heart threaded with thorns, or another cracked down the center. As if saving the mask would save the man.

“...he will come back,” Emet-selch whispers then, staring at the bitter, broken ashes of Helios in his hands. “...I- I will have that much faith in him.”

And Elidibus- and in Elidibus, the dark waxes strong, and he lays a hand on Emet-selch's shoulder.

“Nay- we will save him, my friend,” he promises, and watches as golden eyes behind a red mask snap to him and glaze over. There is weight in his words now - the promise of a thousand thousand souls and the hope of their people. “We will save him, and the star as well. We will.”

The doubt and grief in Emet-selch's eyes disappears, wiped clean by faith. And Elidibus smiles, heart heavy with certainty and the knowledge that in time, Themis's dearest friends will mend the rift born between them here. They will save Azem - they will - and the star he so loves, and all the people too. Elidibus will not allow for any end other than perfect salvation. The bitterness of these sorrowful days will fade, and Azem will smile again, and look upon Emet-selch with that loving mischief in his eye, and this will all be but a distant memory.

They will.

He will make sure of it.

Enjoy the angst/keep the change ya filthy animal

#ffxiv #emet selch #azem #azemet #azemet break up #elidibus #elidibus pov #ffxiv prompts #helios > corrain gealai #corrain gealai #Azem: Helios #this works both in my solo ffxiv story and in the combo universe with Lelesu-Seleukos #and YEAH. this is cruel. Helios doesn't know about the tempering m #but even so #what a hell of a thing to say to the man who nursed you through every illness and loved you for years #like they have a *decades* long relationship if not centuries. and Helios burns it all over this #to be fair to him he is FURIOUS at the Convocation for deciding on the second and third sacrifices to restore the star #like he's figured out dynamis can help here #whether or not it works....well. anyway. but its a viable option and he's not even heard out. even by his own partner #so he's awful about it. very yikes.#this is the last time Emet-selch sees him too.

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starrysnowdrop · 6 months

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Reactions to Days Gone By, Days Yet to Come

Here are my reactions and thoughts about the encore side story from Tales From The Dawn, which you can read HERE before proceeding under the cut. Beware: MAJOR Endwalker spoilers ahead! Keep in mind that I’ll be discussing my own headcanons with my Azem, so if you don’t care about that, feel free to move along.

So I want to just say that this was the absolute best side story they’ve ever written so far! And because it’s also the one that the community voted on, it makes it even more special. I’ve re-read it twice already and I’m so beyond happy to have read this. I’m still crying from reading it and processing it all. In fact, they gave us so many little details about all our favorite Ancients that I’m eating it up!!

First of all, I LOVE that this is all from Hyth’s POV. It’s fantastic. Anyways, next we get a detail about Azem talking to Hyth about the fourteenth in a series of concepts helping with travel, and I NEED to know more!! What is it?? I have many questions about this one thing in particular. Then we have a brief appearance from Byregot himself in the form of Hyth’s secretary trying to stop him from leaving but I giggled at the fact that Hyth just ignores him and goes to do his own thing. This has such gremlin energy that is so perfect for Hyth, but I also giggle at the fact that this is exactly what Urania would do as well. The sibling vibes are over the top here and I love it.

Then we get a huge lore drop that I wasn’t expecting at all: Mitron is a woman!! Which means that Mitron and Loghrif are both women and with the tons of hint drops we have throughout the canon, I’m here to say I’m celebrating the lesbians today! In my head this is Mitron x Loghrif as confirmed as a lesbian couple as we are ever going to get, and I’m soooooo happy.

Next we get another lore drop, this time with Lahabrea and Igeyorhm, and we have confirmation that they are cousins! This makes so much sense now, as we already knew about them working closely with one another and then they joined together in their fight against WoL in Azys La. I was never a Lahabrea x Igeyorhm shipper, so having them be cousins makes way more sense to me. Nice to see someone scolding Lahabrea for all of his Pandaemonium shenanigans.

Then we get Elidibus and I just know all the Elidibus shippers are screaming with joy. Whether you are a Themis x Erich or a Themis x WoL shipper, you’ve been fed, and I’m happy for you all.

Skipping over the part where I’ll blab about forever (ahem Hermes and his existential dread ahem), we get yet another Emet smile as Azem departs on their journey!! Ahhhhhhhh my heart!!! I am so full of emotions with how Hyth talks about Emet here, and in the parts following this scene. No matter if you read Hyth x Hades x Azem as platonic or romantic, or if you romantically ship only one part of them or none at all, you can just feel how deeply Hyth, Hades, and Azem all love each other. I can feel the love coming out of the words and it’s absolutely tragic and beautiful. Especially when you find out that Emet was the one holding out till the last minute to not summon Zodiark until they received word from Azem. God my heart just shattered right there.

And we also get confirmation that Azem left the convocation in order to find the cause of the Final Days and to stop it without the sacrifice to Zodiark. This was my headcanon and it’s probably a headcanon many of you shared, so to see this confirmed as canon sparks joy. It’s absolutely perfect for Urania, although with the new information about Emet trying to have the Convocation wait until they heard from Azem, I will have to reconsider her departure from Amaurot and her feelings towards Hades and Hermes now that we have this new information.

Another tiny piece of detail also confirmed a headcanon I’ve held for years: Hyth and Hades are childhood friends! I’m so happy to see this be confirmed as canon.

Alright, I think I’ve held off long enough. It’s time to talk about Hermes.

So, overall I’m so goddamn happy that we got to have more Hermes in this short scene. Every little bit of him I can get I will gladly take it. And I especially love that we are getting to see the man who lived through the Kairos mind wiping and what he was like after all of it went down. And yet… I feel completely devastated for him.

He looks like a wreck, he’s buried into his work, and he’s also deep in mourning with no one around to understand him. He thinks he has killed Meteion and says he “murdered her”, and it is so upsetting to see him like that. He also I believe is discovering the beginnings of the Final Days and I think he somehow knows that there’s something else wrong, something that he should know and doesn’t remember, and it’s tearing him up. But it’s even more tragic when Hyth mentions that he and everyone else talks about the Kairos incident and the “death of Meteion” as an “amusing anecdote”, and mentions that no one talks about familiars as people, so it truly shows how utterly alone Hermes really is. My heart broke when Hyth says that after the loss of Meteion, Hermes never made another flying creation ever again, and god I just want to cry.

I do like how Hyth is trying to be a friend and get Hermes to rest, and he’s doing what he thinks will help him. But even with Hyth’s caring soul, he just can’t understand what Hermes is going through. And it’s such a tragedy. It reinforces that even Azem couldn’t help Hermes in his time: it’s not until the WoL can offer the answer to Amon of “next time we will find the answers together” that he finds a true friend that understands him. And yet Amon is only the sundered reincarnation of Hermes, not Hermes himself. And I’m sobbing in my room on a Thursday morning over it all.

Now more than ever do I want to write more for Hermes. Not just in the tragic canonverse, but for the Modern AU that I have brainworms for, and quite possibly in a Happy Ending AU for him… with maybe Hali shipping with him??? It’s just a thought.

Anyways, I think I’ve rambled on long enough. If you’ve survived reading all of this, I commend you and thank you wholeheartedly for doing so! If you have any further questions for me about any of my reactions, feel free to send me an ask or a message!! 🥰💖

#ffxiv endwalker #endwalker spoilers #tales from the dawn #days gone by days yet to come #unsundered hali: urania #urania x hermes #ship: think of me #I have tons of brainworms now #and I don’t know what to do with it all #I need time to process it all #now I have not only canon story stuff to write but possibly two AUs

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etheirys · 4 months

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you're dead, nothing can hurt you ... which seems to him a more promising beginning, more true. shadowbringers era emetwol, from emet-selch's pov. listening in order recommended.

#this is a repost from 2021 sry #emetwol #3 #bring back playlist graphic edits im on my knees #title / quote is from louise gluck's ' a myth of devotion '#art and edits tag

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necromeowncy · 6 months

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POV you are Emet-Selch.

Made this based on an ask prompt I received from this post for A4. Thank you for giving me the prompt @reenramewrilah !

#help lmao #that's YOUR elf Exarch!!!!! yea!! woo!#he is very babygirl #elezen #wolgraha #wolexarch #crystal exarch #shadowbringers spoilers #g'raha tia #wol x g'raha tia #aedric vaillencourt #gpose #my poses #elezen wol #ffxiv shadowbringers #prompt responses

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c0rpseductor · 6 months

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as discussed it’s not even like i think you should write emet being niceys forever. like in my plans for my fic a direct consequence of emet-selch’s relationship with pfeil and the subsequent clusterfuck breakup is that pfeil tries to kill himself. in no way is emetwol an ideal relationship even absent abuse, as in my writing. but there’s a difference between like “he’s still the romantic lead and this is still a romance and we should still find this romantic even when he’s committed aggravated domestic battery” and “this story has abuse in it, and abuse is not good regardless of the characters’ opinions, so here are realistic consequences etc.” as ive mentioned bc i’ve been thinking about this book a lot lately, like, lolita is written from the POV of an abuser and still unambiguously condemns csa if one is actually paying attention. it is not hard to write a story that handles this subject matter well, provided you actually think about it and take it seriously

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inkedinfantasy · 10 months

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My FFXIV Swap gift for @faunflower! It was really cool getting to learn more about Lou; I hope I did her justice! ^_^

Under the cut since it got kinda long: some Emet-Selch POV of the Rak'tika segment of Shadowbringers MSQ. 👀

Another day, another jaunt into the far corners of Norvrandt following in the footsteps of the Warrior of Light and his companions.

Not for long, of course. He was still quite unwelcome among their party, and while that might not ordinarily deter him, being confronted by the Night’s Blessed did. He was here to observe, after all, not share in their hapless conflicts with the First’s residents. And so he withdrew, content to watch from afar, at least until they managed to track down Rak’tika’s Lightwarden.

He had no doubt they’d find it, between the Warrior of Light’s uncommon tenacity and Lou’s…ambition? Audacity? Whatever you wished to call it. It was simply a matter of time until the lot of them could manage to put all the pieces together. For him, at least, all that meant was another exceptionally dull wait.

He watched idly as the Warrior and his friends ran hither and yon playing the good little ever-dutiful heroes. He wondered if Lou was regretting her insistence on traveling with them yet.

Probably not. Like called to like with this self-sacrificial adventurer sort, solving all the star’s problems with endless patience and enthusiasm. Most likely she was having the time of her life.

He certainly lacked the patience to even keep observing such things secondhand. He retreated further into the forest, nearer to the Viis village where he could doze off and await their coming once they worked out how to avoid being skewered by Ronka’s guardians.

It was just his luck that he was about to drift off when he spotted familiar figures in the distance, heading in the direction of the village. Just as expected, the Viis of Fanow did not suffer any trespassers to approach, descending on the group as soon as they’d trekked far enough into the forest.

The first warrior to attempt to land a blow met only Lou’s shield. The attacker leapt back defensively, spear still at the ready, but Lou made no move to counterattack, shouting something he couldn’t make out from his distance. She appeared to be attempting to talk the Viis down, a hand held out placatingly. The Viis warrior relaxed her stance minutely, sheathing her weapon entirely when the Miqo’te woman presented a seal they had surely gone to exhaustive lengths to acquire.

Their attackers appeased, they sheathed their weapons and continued down the path of azure flowers, approaching close enough now to make out what they were saying.

“‘Tis a boon to have a cooler head prevail, met so oft as we are with strife,” the Elezen man was remarking to Lou.

“A cooler head” wasn’t the phrase he’d use to describe the woman who’d tried to take on a Lightwarden singlehandedly armed only with a scavenged sword and a suicidal plot. Overconfident, perhaps. Rash, even. But level-headed? He scoffed to himself.

Still, progress was progress. Even as he watched them pass, he did not deign to rise from his spot, certain by now it would still be some time before they managed to accomplish anything of note.

* * *

Waiting, waiting, waiting. One of the truest curses of immortality in this shattered world was the sheer tedium of it, if you asked him. The Warrior and his allies had set off to traipse through yet more ruins, having pinpointed the Lightwarden’s location and lacking only the means to get there. Presumably, they had achieved something, if they were indeed the source of the brief fluctuation he’d felt in the Lifestream.

Half asleep once more as he was, he had neglected to note the quiet figures approaching until they were already upon him. A misstep, for all that there was naught in this forest that could truly pose a threat to him. He briefly lamented the futility of his search for even the most fleeting peace and quiet before opening his eyes to find a spear already at his throat.

“Who are you, and why are you here?” the Viis warrior demanded.

“Are you with the allies of Ronka?” another asked, a touch less suspiciously.

He glanced towards Fanow and smirked. “I suppose you could say that."

* * *

The mood was somber as he was marched into Fanow proper, the Viis declaring that they had apprehended him, taking him as an associate. The gunbreaker scoffed loudly at the prospect.

For his part, he merely took the scene in, eyebrow raised. “I needn’t be an associate to hear the clamor you’ve been raising all across the forest. What trouble have you gotten into this time?”

The quiet stretched on, nobody wanting to put it into words. Lou was the one that finally spoke up, explaining the whole story. The Eulmorans. The antidote. Their friend’s sacrifice.

Unfortunate, but hardly an unexpected outcome, considering the usual nature of their escapades. “I see. My condolences.”

“There was more.”

All attention snapped to the Warrior of Light, no one seeming to have expected him to speak up. He picked up the account where Lou had left off, mentioning the gale of wind that had come from the pit where their friend had fallen, explaining the spell she had saved herself with once before.

“How very interesting. I had thought I sensed a disturbance to the Lifestream just earlier.” He paused. “Only the once, mind you. Suggesting she is still adrift.”

At that faces fell once more, the brief spark of hope that had lit in Lou’s eyes dying out. As they knew well, if they had dealt with this spell before, locating one particular soul amidst the Lifestream would be an impossible task for any one of them, no matter their skill with magic.

However…

He affected a put-upon sigh. “Very well, then. I’ll go and fetch her.”

The gunbreaker rounded on him immediately. “And just why in the hells should we trust—”

“You could get her out? Truly?”

Lou’s voice interrupted the man’s snarl, and a heavy, charged silence descended.

“I can,” he said. “An unambiguously helpful gesture as a peace offering, we can call it, hmm? What say you?”

This time, she hesitated, looking to the tense, unhappy group. “If we have the chance to save her, we should take it,” she offered softly.

The gunbreaker sighed. “I suppose we’ve no other options.”

“Splendid. Now, take this.” He summoned a small aetherial lamp with a snap of creation magic. “You’ll need to find a suitable spot with strong enough resonance with the Lifestream. This will glow bright and steady when you find one. When you do, all you need to do is whistle.” He held the lamp out in Lou’s direction.

Lou studied his face with a serious expression, brow furrowed and mouth pressed into a flat, wary line as she accepted it from him, their fingers just barely brushing as he handed it over. He offered her only a wry smile in return, and she brushed past him towards the village’s exit without saying anything more, the others following in her wake in equal silence.

It was only a few minutes before he heard her piercing whistle ring out, and he arrived to find the lot of them crowded suspiciously around the spot that she had chosen, watching his approach with distrustful eyes.

“Now then, some space, if you please.” He tapped into his power, reaching out for the familiar flow of the Lifestream, quickly latching on to a robust, smooth current. Lou had chosen well, it seemed.

He closed his eyes, his focus sharpening, deepening. With two Wardens absorbed, the Warrior of Light’s soul was already a veritable beacon, scorching and bleaching away the color of every other soul in his vicinity. Even for someone with his sight, it took no small amount of concentration to pick out any other tiny sparks of color amidst the all-consuming Light. Casting his awareness into the Lifestream dulled its brilliance ever so slightly, enough to pick out their Miqo’te friend’s soul and summon it forth.

She appeared in a radiant glow that near-mirrored the Warrior’s soul, the lights of the others’ souls like moths to a flame as they rushed forth at once to tend to her.

Withdrawing his awareness back to the physical realm, the small constellation of souls surrounding him winked back into sharper view, gaining definition, his concentration holding just enough to make them out.

He observed them, idly, and froze.

Just for a moment, a split second before he released the hold on his soul sight, he could have sworn he spotted a color that he had not seen for a long, long, time, a color he would have known anywhere.

His eyes snapped open, and his gaze immediately met blue eyes staring at him warily.

It had been Lou’s soul he was staring at.

She’d quickly turned her attention back to the others, but he still felt off-kilter, whatever inane, sentimental exchange they were having buzzing in his periphery without comprehension. If they would only be quiet…

“And is there anything you’d like to say to me?” he interjected before they could keep going on. “Some word of thanks, perhaps?”

He’d slid right back into lofty and irritable, wishing he could catch another glimpse of what he’d seen—what he thought he’d seen—through the overwhelming brightness of the Warrior’s aether.

The Miqo’te woman at least had the decency to thank him, though the conversation after that turned to the Qitana Ravel and Rak’tika’s Lightwarden. The Warrior and his companions set off back towards Fanow, none of them eager to remain in his presence, friendly gesture or no. Only Lou lingered, arms folded, staring resolutely at the ground with a pensive expression.

Unable to help himself, he reached for his soul sight once more, colors flaring to life in more distinctness with the Warrior’s distance. With this new clarity, there was no denying it. Her soul was the precise color of Azem’s, and seeing it again so near made his heart clench in icy shock.

“Thank you.”

Lou’s voice shattered his sudden crisis, and he realized she was staring at him again. He schooled his expression into something dry and composed. “Uncritical gratitude? I may faint dead away on the spot.”

“I’m trying to be polite, you know. I’m grateful you saved Y’shtola, and it means a lot to me—to us—that you’d offer.”

“Hmm, I’m not certain your friends would share the sentiment, but it is most heartening to hear, nevertheless,” he said, pressing a hand to his chest theatrically.

She scoffed, but hid the faintest hint of a smile.

* * *

And just like that, mere bells after unceremoniously pulling one of their own from the Lifestream, the Warrior of Light and his companions had felled another Lightwarden. No one could say they lacked dedication, to be sure.

He had expected that dedication would carry them out of the Qitana Ravel promptly once their business was concluded, self-righteously satisfied with a job well done and ready to start their hunt anew.

Instead, they continued deeper into the ruins.

Honestly. He’d spent an age painstakingly making his way through the decrepit tunnels snaking all throughout the temple only to find them lingering over a room of old murals. He could hear their conversation echoing off the stone well before he even entered the chamber, speculating about the age of the paint and ancient wisdom or some such.

Well. If they were so interested in history, he had a thing or two he could tell them.

And perhaps, if he were lucky, Lou would find the sound of it a bit familiar.

* * *

They’d taken the revelation poorly, as he’d expected they would. It mattered little. They could carry on in their hushed, concerned murmurs about the truth of Hydaelyn’s nature; theirs were not the thoughts he cared to hear.

Lou, in stark contrast to the others, had not appeared particularly shaken by the idea. “Primal” did not carry the same weight for her, being as she was a native of the First, he supposed. As the others carried on with their fretting, she had turned her attention back to the murals, staring at the crude, faded depiction of Amaurot on the wall, entirely absorbed in the image. Her expression was not quite recognition, but something near enough to it to encourage him.

Paying the others no more mind, he sidled up behind her. “Something catch your eye?” he murmured.

She let out a startled gasp and drew back. “Something catch yours?” she countered. “Skulking around like that?”

“Merely taking in the artwork.” He looked up at the mural she had been studying, examining it as if he had not seen it countless times before, as if he could not recreate it from memory. “Ah, the glorious city of Amaurot. When the world was whole, you could find no finer place on the star.”

“Is that so?” Her tone was skeptical. “Did you look?”

It was cheeky and presumptuous and such an Azem question that he nearly laughed. “Oh, you’d be surprised. Amaurot was my home, but circumstances led me to see more of the star than most.”

“Circumstances? Of what sort?” This had captured her attention, her tone holding a hint of interest, and that, too, was achingly familiar. He dared to push further.

“The circumstances were not a what but a who. There was…a dear friend of mine who was ever getting themselves into trouble, and would call upon me for aid wherever they might have been. They were a traveler, a representative of our people to the rest of the star.”

“That sounds wonderful,” she said, almost to herself.

“It was,” he said, far more quietly. His gaze remained fixed on the mural, but he could feel her watching him, truly examining him for the first time since they’d met.

“You followed us down here,” she said at last. “You went to the trouble of recounting the stories of all these paintings.” “I did,” he said. “And?”

“You want to remember. You want us to remember.”

He said nothing.

She sighed, a hint of disappointment in the sound. “If you would speak about the world as you remember it, would you tell me more of the places you’ve seen?” she asked softly.

The voices echoing off the cavern’s walls grew suddenly louder, the sound of feet scraping against stone approaching them. He did not need to turn back to feel the weight of several other gazes on him. He turned to face Lou instead, offering a small smile. “Perhaps later. It would seem you have other places to be.”

Her eyes darted past him to the others and back to his face. “I will hold you to that, Emet-Selch.”

They parted there, Lou exiting with the others without another word.

He lingered a moment longer, casting one last glance over each of the murals. The images had clearly been foreign to her, but she was full of questions after seeing them, which was almost more than he’d dared to hope. It was yet one more incentive to ingratiate himself to the Warrior’s companions, to see what might be uncovered should she continue to ponder.

He had spent countless lifetimes without so much as a hope of ever finding something like this. He could stand to wait a little longer.

#ffxiv #ffxivswap #shadowbringers #my writing

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rynloveshats · 9 months

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Writing emetwol is so fun from emet’s PoV bc he’s just so fun like so fun. This is making me want to do an emetwol long fic (I have an idea) but I have to wait to finish my current long fic (will take ages)

Anyways I recommend writing emetwol from emet selch PoV bc it’s such a delight :D

#ffxiv #emetwol #emet selch

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azems-familiar · 2 months

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fucking around with writing early shb stuff in the ascian azem au from emet-selch's pov and i just wrote like 3k words of the most circuitous pining i have EVER written. snippet beneath the cut (all very rough draft and written out of order, so subject to be changed by the time we actually post this):

Emet-Selch sighs and crosses his arms over his chest, leaning further against the wall he’s claimed as his own, shaking his head. Several yalms away, out of earshot for even a miqo’te (or so he hopes), Corrain and the Exarch sit at one of the open-air tables dotting the eatery at Musica Universalis, a meal in front of them, speaking about something as they eat. The Exarch is smiling, a soft curve to his lips that Emet-Selch recognizes from the rare times such an open, unguarded expression was turned on him, and he has both his forearms resting on the table, leaning forward on them as he listens to whatever Corrain is saying. Corrain’s eyes are bright where they peek out from behind his hair, the grin on his face something equally brilliant and recognizable - how often had Emet-Selch watched Helios turn that selfsame smile on Seleukos? They are utterly engaged with each other, paying little attention even to their immediate surroundings, much less looking far enough out to notice him.

The soft light from above (true sunlight, rather than the glaring primordial Light that has plagued this place for a century) filters down through the translucent canopy overhead and paints the two of them in a warm glow. The Exarch’s crystal arm shimmers the same pale blue as Syrcus Tower in that light, as does the streak of crystal that crawls up his neck and cheek, and between that and the glitter of the brass on his robes and his smile, he looks…peaceful, perhaps. Far more relaxed than he has ever been during one of their afternoon conversations - though that, of course, should be expected. The Warrior of Light is not an enemy, but rather the very salvation he and his people have been hoping for for so long.

Corrain says something, grin widening and tail swishing, ears pricking, and the Exarch laughs in response, leaning back in his chair, cowl shifting just enough to show a flash of bleached-pale hair before he adjusts it again. The sound carries on the gentle breeze; Emet-Selch wishes it wouldn’t. There’s a familiar little smug curl to Corrain’s mouth now, one he recalls only too well from those times Helios managed to get him to laugh. Seeing it turned on someone else makes his stomach twist uncomfortably.

Their souls look lovely together, soft pink and bright blue. Complementary colors. Of course they do. Even the thinness of their aether and the dullness of Corrain’s silver gaze cannot change that.

“...I am certain my lord and our mutual friend would be more than pleased if you joined them,” a voice says, and Emet-Selch drags his gaze away from the two greatest irritants in his life at the moment. Lyna, the captain of the Crystarium guard, the Exarch’s adopted granddaughter, tilts her head at him - he admittedly is somewhat impressed by her creeping up on him unnoticed, though he was not paying particularly close attention. They are- passing acquaintances by simple virtue of his tendency to bother the Exarch and her own childhood habit of bursting into the Umbilical or whichever lounge they’d been in to demand they listen to her stories or read her a book or include her in their conversation.

He had found it annoying at first, but as time went on he had almost become accustomed to her occasional presence. Azem would have enjoyed it - they’ve ever had a soft spot for children - and he had never quite been able to shake that thought, or the instinct that he should treat Lyna as they would have. So perhaps she had seen more of the gentleness he was once capable of than anyone in this gods-forsaken land but Azem themself has, and perhaps she thinks that means she knows him. But she does not. Nor does her advice mean anything to him. She has never grasped the fact that he and the Exarch are enemies.

“I’m quite certain I have no idea what you could possibly be referring to,” Emet-Selch responds archly, rolling his eyes. Why would he insert himself into the middle of their clearly riveting conversation? He isn’t that bored.

Lyna’s ears twitch and she raises one eyebrow at him. “You have been watching them for fifteen minutes,” she says, flat and unimpressed, and he presses his lips together in an attempt to hide a grimace. So he has. What does it matter, anyway?

“And you know this how, exactly?” he asks, casting a cursory glance into the aether - but Azem is off with the amaro tamers and this conversation is not yet uncomfortable enough for him to interrupt something they truly enjoy. Damn it - he should have taken his observations to a high point where he would be less likely to be seen.

“You are far less subtle than you believe yourself to be, Emet-Selch.” She gestures in the direction of their table with one hand, a small, thin smile crossing her face, and he wonders what exactly she thinks she knows. “Go, join them. They are not likely to turn you away.”

Emet-Selch scoffs, but he lets his gaze follow her gesture anyway, turning back towards the table - only to see that Corrain and the Exarch have abandoned their discussion and are both watching him intently. Corrain looks far more guarded than he had moments ago, and the Exarch is frowning faintly, because of course he is. Emet-Selch shouldn’t be surprised.

They are enemies even when he has offered an olive branch in truth.

“Heavens above,” he mutters under his breath. Now this certainly warrants going to bother Azem - the last thing he needs to deal with is even more questions about his motives, or worse, about Azem. The game is no longer enjoyable when it is not-

Before he can take his leave, however, the Exarch beckons to him - unexpected. Unwelcome. Emet-Selch has no intention of subjecting himself to the indignity of sitting and watching them enjoy themselves while ignoring his presence, or worse, seeing all the life (what little of it they possess) drain out of them as they force themselves to be polite. The Exarch has very rarely laughed in his presence, and even fewer times has he meant it, and while Emet-Selch has no personal stake in the matter of his enemies’ happiness he has known the Exarch for long enough to feel some manner of…

If this attempt at diplomacy fails, as he already has begun to believe it must, he will soon be destroying everything the Exarch holds dear. He cannot begrudge the man a few moments of joy before that happens, especially with the slowly-dawning realization that he has never seen the Exarch truly experience it. At least not when he was around.

Why should it have been any other way? Heavens, he’s gotten soft without Azem to care for and keep focused. They are no longer the only one losing hold.

He intends to walk away - he truly does. But then Corrain favors the Exarch with a sharp, confused look, displeased and uncertain, only to be answered with a smile (a smile, of all things) - and the Warrior of Light relaxes, tension melting away, ears pricking back to a more curious posture as he twists back to look at Emet-Selch again, the expression on his face much softer and more interested. He means to walk away - but it is difficult to resist that look, it always has been, and before he entirely realizes what he’s doing he’s started towards them. At which point he can hardly change direction without looking like a fool, so with a sigh and a small shrug he appropriates a third chair from another nearby table and brings it over to them, dropping to sit down and propping one foot up on his knee.

“Well, well,” he says, leaning back. “The hero of the hour and the Crystal Exarch deign to acknowledge their sworn foe’s presence. Whatever you want, I do hope it isn’t boring.”

Corrain’s eyebrows seem to have acquired aspirations of joining his hairline. Emet-Selch ignores them, and him.

The Exarch smiles. “I could hardly allow my dearest enemy to simply lurk in the shadows like a bothersome wallflower, now could I?” he asks, and Emet-Selch rolls his eyes to the sky and tilts his head to rest along the back of his chair. A bothersome wallflower. Such eloquence. “Besides, your unique perspectives are refreshing, to say the least, and- you did say that you are only here to observe. Which, I trust, means you shall not be wandering off and spilling any of our villainous plans to Lord Vauthry, no? You have ever been a man who speaks only truths, no matter how circuitous.”

#ramblings #my writing #ffxiv #you know i'm not even sure what to call this ship tbh #emetwol #wolraha #emetraha #in vague. everyone is pining and no one is having a good time.#ascian azem au

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