ancients — mare lamentorum

day six onerous

Wed, 07 Sep 2022 12:42:50 +0000

#ffxivwrite2022 #ffxiv #prompt #endwalker #shadowbringers #ancients #hythhades #worldunsundered #spoilers

warnings: implied bullying/blackballing due to prejudice

general: endwalker/shadowbringers spoilers ; the ancients were poly af, change my mind ; watch me make this shit up as i go along in 3, 2, 1…

adjective

(of a task, duty, or responsibility) involving an amount of effort and difficulty that is oppressively burdensome.

Interminable.

These long ceremonies of investiture are absolutely interminable.

Boring, pompous, long-winded, and frankly unnecessary when there was so much work to be done these days.

And yet here is Hades, suffering at Hythlodaeus’ behest; which isn’t that unusual to be fair but at least today’s reason is something of a novelty.

Today, Hythlodaeus’ twin sister ascends to the seat of Azem.

Hades knows of his companion’s sister, but he’s never seen her. This sad state of affairs is not for lack of trying on Hyth’s part—far from it. It’s more to do with the woman’s odd habit of sequestering herself deep within the bowels of the Words of Halmarut for weeks or months at a time.

‘To better focus on her research,’ explains her smiling twin, as if that explains anything at all.

Outside the obvious shared parentage with his partner, Hades is aware of very few solid facts.

Firstly, her name is Freyja.

Secondly, she’s considered the preeminent protégée of Halmarut and Emmeroloth, having excelled in the creation of new, useful concepts that blend the best aspects of both subjects.

This work with concepts alone should have been enough to see her a seated member of Convocation, or at the very least the frontrunner to replace her mentors, however…

A rumor runs quickly for great distances and on legs longer than any concept known to mankind, nor does it tire or suffer from forgetfulness.

Unfortunate then that rumors are the only source for the paltry remainder of his knowledge.

Lastly, she takes after the twin’s father, Njörðr, an odd man so enamored with the peoples and cultures not of Amaurot he’d taken one of these unnamed outsiders to wife, adopted as his own name the one gifted him by the tribe, and even going so far as to name his offspring following the same tribal traditions.

Hence the twin’s unusual paired names: Freyja and Freyr.

Besides being held to account for her father's perceived social wrongdoings, Freyja indulges in eccentricities of her own including the refusal to change her birth name even after her twin changed his, and a propensity toward working with her hands, mixing odd concoctions from physical specimens rather than experimenting on concepts via theoretical calculations—among other things.

All of which is anathema of the highest order to run of the mill Amaurotines.

Her stubborn refusal to give up manual labor is likely why she smells of some fragrant spice, discernable on the air as she walks past with her long black veil dragging behind, while the Convocation waits, seated and dour on the dais ahead. More then half of their number seem less than pleased at this turn of events, the corners of their mouths turned down sharply enough to cut stone.

Nonconformity is the greatest social evil amongst modern citizens of Amaurot. Most would do anything required, pay any price to go unnoticed and unremarked.

They wish to be normal like everyone else.

It can be inferred then, without hyperbole, that eccentric is not a label one would wish to be saddled with in Amaurot, and the proof of the theory requires no further investigation than the case of Freyja.

Upon Halmarut’s retirement it seemed obvious who should succeed, yet Freyja remained a simple researcher through (rumored) no choice of her own. Talented yes, but just a researcher.

Similarly, when old Emmeroloth desired a return to the star, Freyja’s name surfaced again and again as a suitable replacement among those familiar with her work, however in the end the honor of the seat was extended to another.

Some say that both positions are now lesser for this blatant favoritism, but this, like so much else, is rumor and no more than that.

Hades shakes himself from deep reverie at Hyth’s insistent tugging on his sleeve. His gaze happily glowing lavender eyes, which haven't faltered for a moment in the face of his lover’s complete inattention. “Here we go,” Hyth murmurs, soft and dewy with pride at his sibling finally gaining the recognition she’d been denied.

Azem begins to speak ponderous words regarding ‘the vibrant soul that now stands before us.’ The blue eyed, silver haired woman launches into an exhaustive listing of Freyja’s many accomplishments, both solo and in the company of Azem.

Hades has long since lost the thread of the presentation entirely, unable to focus on anything but the poor veiled woman’s hands, clenched white-knuckled into fists and shaking like the final leaves on a tree.

“A lucky thing indeed that Azem took an interest in Lady,” whispers Hyth, stirring Hades’ white hair as he speaks into his partner’s ear. “She’d have spent an eternity locked away in a basement somewhere just singing to her plants, the flowers in her hair growing wild. All that talent gone to waste from sheer stubbornness.” He clucks like a mother hen worried for her smallest chick, “At least as Azem she can live, expand her horizons, broaden her friend circle outside of just Óðinn and I, maybe even fall in love?”

It takes Hades a long moment to remember that Lady is one of Hyth’s many pet names for his sister and to further recall the name Óðinn refers to a childhood friend of the twins, yet another hopeless eccentric.

“You shouldn’t meddle Hyth, it makes people irritated,” Hades grouses in an undertone. “Your sister is a woman grown and from the sound of it eminently capable. I have no doubt she will excel as Azem.”

His lover only smiles, “You are right of course. How easy it is for those of us who are comfortable with affection to forget the way that love can smother as well as uplift.”

Hades opens his mouth to reply to the—in his opinion—uncalled for jab but in the same instant Azem finishes speaking.

Solemn, she removes her crimson mask of office before replacing it with the simple white one most Amaurotines wear, including Hades himself. Turning, she lifts a smaller version of the same crimson mask, meant for someone with more delicate features, and extends it to Freyja like a gift.

The pale, shaking hands take the mask and draw it beneath the dark veil.

A moment passes.

Two.

The hand extends once more and Azem, now Venat, places a glowing yellow-orange crystal in the very center of the slim palm.

The fingers close, the stone brightens, and a low hum fills the room.

The Convocation members watch with baited breath.

The heavy veil drops with a sensuous rustle to the gleaming floor and Azem, newly masked, turns to greet the gathered assembly.

A tall man with brilliant red hair and striking sanguine eyes rushes to embrace her, but there is a moment where Hades catches a glimpse of Freyja’s face.

It is enough to leave him breathless.

Her long, flowing tresses are several shades darker than Hythlodaeus’ lavender locks, and seemingly composed of both hair and blossoms in the same heliotrope shade. She’s small for an Amaurotine and slight of build, almost bird or doll like, and gifted with her brother’s otherworldly beauty to boot. They are, quite unmistakably, twins.

Surrounded on all sides by a crowd of well-wishers she doesn’t speak, only smiles. Her redheaded companion—doubtless Óðinn—stays close, observing others as they interact with her with open curiosity, as if he is just as interested in her reactions as he is the behavior of those who wish to congratulate her.

“We should offer our most heartfelt congratulations, don’t you agree Hades?” asks Hyth, though he isn’t really asking, as he’s already out of his seat and darting toward his sister through the crowd like a fish slicing through water.

Hades heaves a sigh and follows, though it takes him at least three times as long to reach the center of the crowd. When he does finally manage the task and stands next to Azem, his partner is nowhere to be found. Such is the way of things.

“I wished to congratulate you, though I wonder if I should. You seemed nervous,” remarks Hades with his characteristic bluntness.

“I will accept whatever my brother’s partner wishes to extend to me,” she replies smoothly in a voice as warm and comforting as a nap in the sunshine. “I hope the nerves will wear off after sufficient time has passed. Besides, Venat plans to refrain from returning to the star for some while yet, so I shall have her wisdom to guide me.”

Ah… an eccentric soul drawn to an eccentric soul. Of course. The retiring instructor that refuses to follow custom and the wide-eyed student grateful for an experienced puppeteer.

Venat has managed the trick of retiring while still having a voice in the Convocation.

Hades is suddenly very glad indeed that this burden, this mantle of responsibility for the safety and growth of the star has not passed to him. Nor shall it ever if he has anything to say about it.

He simply doesn’t have the temperament for it.

“Doubtless she will be of great comfort to you, should you need her, Freyja.”

She shakes her head, the flowers rustling and scenting the air, “It’s not Freyja anymore. Changing it was a requirement for accepting the seat.”

A thin filament of anger rises in him at the pettiness of those chittering old fools in their straight backed chairs. He smothers it viciously—that battle is not his to fight, though he would dearly love to, if only to make them all terribly uncomfortable, “Azem it is then.”

He bows and makes to leave, bored of playing the game for today.

“My brother's beloved should never address me by such formal means, Hades. Please, my name is Persephone.”

Persephone?

He freezes, rooted to the spot as his every hair stands on end.

What is she doing? To choose that name as a replacement and then to have the Convocation just accept it?

Persephone, the thresher of men.

He very nearly laughs aloud at the cleverness of it. The sheer gall, to make a show of yielding to their wishes then proceeding to choose a name so old… So cursed.

She is clever indeed, this unassuming little woman with her blossoming hair and her subtle insubordination.

No doubt Venat had a hand in this as well.

Woe betide any doddering old fart who places themselves against these two united.

Hythlodaeus reappears like magic and restarts the conversation with his sister and friend as though he never disappeared before Hades can fully digest this information, let alone act on it. Surprised, he finds himself at a rather embarrassing loss for words, choosing to cover it by raising her hand to his lips.

At this distance he comes to realize how different her eyes are from her brother’s—a strange and beautiful amber color, a red gold like ambrosia or warm, liquid honey.

“Despoina Persephone,” Hades says, nerves coming alive at the old honorific tumbling from his lips. “I wish to know you better, as my partner’s sister. Perhaps—”

“You should come to dinner!” interrupts Hyth, in unrestrained glee. “You too, Óðinn. No excuses.”

The crimson haired man laughs and bows, eyes dancing with boundless curiosity. He is beautiful too, in his own way. “The pleasure would be ours, my friends.”

Hades will not, will never, allow himself to be drawn into these political games and machinations for which he has no patience.

However he will shoulder any burden, fight any foe, or move any mountain for those he loves.

failsafe

Tue, 31 May 2022 13:21:56 +0000

#hythhades #ancients #worldunsundered #ffxiv

“Hyth…”

“No.”

His companion pulls away, leaving behind an empty space and cold, smooth silken sheets. He watches, rapt, as Hythlodaeus pulls his long, lilac hair out of its’ rumpled braid, smooths it between pale hands, then re-braids it, slowly and deliberately, with quite a bit more concentration than required.

“Hyth, please.”

Oh, how Hades despises being reduced to begging, but what else can be done? If begging is necessary to get them to understand, to see, to stay with him—then beg he shall. The humiliation of prostrating himself before his lovers is eminently preferable to shouldering this burden alone.

Alone he would be doomed to failure.

He’d already failed to convince Freyja and Odinn; the memory still stung when he recalled it. Which he did all too often, like a canker in the mouth—it could not be ignored.

Hythlodaeus huffs a sigh. “No. Ask all you like but it’s never going to happen.”

Hades flops against the pillows, petulant as a toddler, “You and your sister are the most self-sacrificing fools I have ever met. If I didn't know better I might believe this dramatic savior act of yours a misguided attempt at upstaging her.”

Hythlodaeus goes still for a moment, clever hands frozen mid-stroke on a particularly rumpled lock of hair, “What makes you say that, my love?”

“Freyja and Odinn flounce off to who-knows-where seeking answers to the problem of the Final Days. Even after good sense, the combined knowledge of the remainder of the Convocation, and Fandaniel’s particular field of expertise have all reached the inescapable conclusion that the answer they seek simply doesn’t exist. Once the natural flow of celestial aether has grown stagnant there is no way to animate it anew, save through concentrating enough willing sacrifices to rewrite the fundamental laws of reality.”

“As I’m sure you pointed out before they left, dear. And most assuredly this terrible news was delivered with your legendary tact in a gentle tone, at a normal volume, and with no trace of sarcasm or disappointment whatsoever. You must teach me your ways,” his lover teases.

Hades continues his diatribe, as though the other man had never spoken. “Am I supposed to believe that after your twin and her most beloved disappear, you decide to count yourself among the saviors of the star for no particular reason? A position I might add, that requires no special talent, no valiant acts, no stunning or clever use of creation magics… only living aether.” Hades sits up, placing himself directly in front of his partner to meet those gentle lavender eyes. “Look at me and tell me you do this for yourself and not as a means to garner plaudits as a hero.”

Hythlodaeus ignores the venom with his usual aplomb, but does not follow the simple request—only saying, “There is no greater honor than to give one’s life for the preservation of the star.”

Kiss-stung lips purse as Hyth rises from the bed. He retrieves his long dark robe from where it lies puddled on the floor and wriggles into it, flopping the waist length braid over his left shoulder.

“Don’t, Freyr. Stop.” grates Hades, leaning to seize one thin wrist.

Freyr—chosen name Hythlodaeus—remains in place, though Hades can feel the wild staccato rhythm of his heart through the delicate skin.

“I asked for truth,” Hades growls. “Promise me that you do this for the star, for yourself, for me, for anything other than the reason I fear: that Freyja, having left her seat and her status behind, has created a vacuum. An empty space that you wish to fill purely as a way to extricate yourself from her shadow.”

Finally, his love engages, leaving off staring at the ruined landscape visible through the window to pin Hades with a gaze as hard as diamonds, “And what if I am? What does my motivation matter if either way the star is saved?”

“It matters to me!” the dark-haired man hisses, acrid panic rising in the back of his throat. “You have chosen to surrender your eternal existence to a god when I believed… I thought…”

Hyth returns to bed, gathering the most honorable Emet-Selch into his arms the way one would an inconsolable child, “Dearest Hades. The truth is… The truth is that I do this for every reason I can conceive of and for an infinite number of others that yet elude me: for my sister and Odinn, for the star, for Zodiark, for Amaurot, for generations yet unborn, for hope and for love.”

“Love?” harrumphs Hades, rather thickly, his face buried in Hythlodaeus’ shoulder.

Laughter rings out and for one beautiful, shining moment—to his lasting shame—Hades forgets that the warm body he clings to is not Freyja.

“Yes of course, for love. Why does anyone do anything if not for love?”

“Do you love those ridiculous shark concepts constantly heaped upon your desk?”

Another bright laugh. Another haunting memory of the departed Freyja. “I do actually. I love the dedication of those who were creative enough to conceive of them and brave enough to submit them to the Bureau. I love grousing with my staff over the sheer number we receive. I love laughing at the silliest of the lot over wine, just the four of us, at home, warm and comfortable and safe—together.”

“Freyr…”

“I want that again Hades. I will give all that is within me to ensure it happens. Freyja and Odinn do as they must, as will I… and so will you.”

Hades cannot dam the wave of bitterness that rolls over him, a lump of cold lead settling in his stomach at the realization that Hythlodaeus’ decision is final.

A carefree façade over a spine of solid steel, that is his Hythlodaeus.

Half-formed protestations remain unvoiced as something smooth, heavy, and cool drops into Hades’ palm. “Wha—?”

“This is for you. A gift of strength and purpose,” murmurs Hythlodaeus in a strange tone a little like singing a hymn.

The stone is somewhat triangular, fitting snugly into his palm as if meant to rest there. Within moments it’s warm, rather than chilled, much more appropriate considering the object’s vibrant amber color. A perfect circle surrounds the lone dot on its otherwise unblemished surface.

A receptacle for memories. A method of passing on history, recorded as it is lived, to future generations of Amaurotines. A legacy of knowledge.

This one belongs—had belonged—to Freyja and every other Azem to hold the seat before her, in an illustrious line stretching unbroken and infinite back to the shadowy dawn of civilization.

“Where did you get this?” asks Hades, incredulous. The last time he’d seen it was the final gathering of the Fourteen, when Azem stood and announced she had relinquished her position, before laying the stone on her seat and walking out, head held high and never looking back.

He’d simply stared at it then, slack-jawed and immobilized by shock. Such a small thing, a tiny golden stone adrift in a sea of black robes. Insignificant in the grand scheme of existence but absolutely integral to his own well being.

Hades needed her. Needed them.

He lost sight of it then, trapped in his own head; transfixed by the agony of his entire life disintegrating into wreckage for a second time. Other figures shuffling out in her wake barely registered—absorbed in his own thoughts—save one.

Odinn with his long, copper hair and clever eyes the color of a blazing sunset—nothing like the sky that hung over Amaurot now—drew his attention like a beacon on the horizon. The two men locked gazes for the space of several heartbeats, engaging in a silent battle of wills. Hades entreating silently that his partners should stay; they were meant to be four after all—not two pairs of two. Apart they were incomplete.

However, Odinn’s normally bright eyes are dull, with heavy bags prominent above hollow cheeks. He shakes his head at Hades’ unspoken plea, an unmistakable “no.”

As gentle and scholarly a soul as Odinn was, one could be forgiven for assuming him as biddable as a newborn lamb—but that would be a mistake. One did not win Emet-Selch’s esteem or love without possessing formidable strength of will, and Odinn is no exception.

Neither blinked.

Hades glanced away first and when he looked back, Odinn had disappeared—there was no sign of his russet head anywhere.

Only he and Hythlodaeus were left.

And after sundown tonight he will be all that remains.

“I lifted it after that ill-starred assembly,” says Hyth, with an air of complete nonchalance though there is a hint of a smile in his soft voice. “She asked me to. I was directed to add my memories to hers, us being twins and all, and then pass it to you.”

She.

Freyja. Her hair was both like and unlike her brother’s, not lilac like his but not exactly pink either, always meticulously braided and falling soft and sleek over one shoulder—the opposite shoulder to the one her brother preferred of course. Where Hyth’s eyes are a light purple, hers mimic a pale rose—striking in the extreme. A smattering of freckles spreads across her nose as well, like a constellation of stars, an unexpectedly charming feature her brother lacked.

“You should add your memories as well and bolster her magic with yours, then keep it somewhere safe.”

“What? Why my magic and my memories? And for that matter, why your memories as well?”

Hyth simply looks at him, as if he’d asked why the sky is blue. “She did not elaborate, nor did I ask. Azem requests and I obey.”

One of more subtle reasons for his love of Hythlodaeus is this sort of banter, where Hades isn’t sure if he’s being teased. However, seeing as it’s Hyth, it’s most likely a tease and he treats it as such.

”She’s no longer Azem, Hyth. You don’t have to humor her.”

”You didn’t grow up with her,” he says with a wry chuckle. “I was born second, you know? It’s said I appeared right behind her, clutching her heel. We are twins, yes, but she’s always been ahead of me. Where she leads, I will follow, and when she asks for a favor, I grant it.”

They lapse into comfortable silence.

Hades studies the stone as though it contains an answer to these horrific times, turning it over and over in his hands.

Hythlodaeus places a soft kiss on the other man’s forehead before getting up to water his plants one last time—Hades will forget they even exist. “She’ll come back with all the answers, then we can solve this together.”

“How do you know? How could you possibly—?”

“The stone.”

Hades is finding it difficult to speak around a sudden constriction in his throat. He simply listens.

“She’s chosen to leave it with you because she knows the things you are capable of—knows you will do everything you must to save the star. She loves you and she has faith, as do I.”

“Love again.” Hades can’t help it. He rolls his eyes.

“Yes, and faith,” says Hyth, trying to imprint this place and all its comforts on his soul forever—a blazing brand of fierce love that nothing can wash away.

Not even death.

“It’s time,” he murmurs, almost as much to himself as to Hades.

“Let me go with you. I—,” Hades jumps up with a sudden burst of energy and begins throwing on his robe.

“No. Stay here. I— I need to go alone.” I may not be able to do this if you’re there.

“Oh,” replies Hades, numbly.

“You have work tomorrow. And perhaps after that Freyja and Odinn will come home?” hums Hythlodaeus, as if he’s just going on an overnight trip. His robes swirl about him as he turns to leave.

Though not before Hades sees the tremble at the corner of his mouth—a sign of tears unshed. “Perhaps.”

“Have faith in her and all will be well, my love. We will meet again at journey's end and under far kinder skies than these.”

One final glance filled with boundless love, then the door closes softly behind. He is gone.

And Hades is left alone in cold and silence.

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