middaeg | a forgotten shadow permeates

["Damn it, Mother, for Twelve's sake, consult whatever half-baked conscience you've left for a change before you go running to me for moral support!"

As soon as Hades steps into Irhya's mirror, a flowerpot phases through him, narrowly missing a younger Irhya behind him and shattering on the wall. He appears to have landed in the thick of an argument.

"Don't talk to me like that! You're barely even old enough to go adventuring, much less try to usurp the life I've made for myself!"

"Why do you think I'm trying to-- Bloody hells! I'm not giving you any more crutches to lean on, I'm not begging my siblings to forgive you, and I'm definitely not giving you any more of my materials, so will you please just get the hell out and leave me alone?!"

Angry footsteps thud hard against the frame of the house as -- her mother? -- stomps around the workspace to grab Irhya by her ponytail with a visceral growl. Seemingly prepared for this very eventuality, she removes a carving knife from her sleeve and holds it to her mother's wrist.

"Kindly take your hand out of my hair before I remove it."

A long pause. A bead of sweat drops off of Irhya's mother's face before she relinquishes her daughter's hair, removing something from inside of her shirt in turn. At first, Irhya is sure, in her moment of insanity, that it's going to be something she'd need to defend herself from, but instead, she ends up chucking a loaded embroidery hoop at her bare feet.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you? You'll regret all of this someday."

"I only regret that you're still alive to dish out more after all the unnecessary hardship you’ve put us through. You birthed us –- that's it. That's the extent of your motherhood!" Her tone dips into sub-zero temperatures as she picks up the hoop from the floor, waving it carelessly. The wooden frame snapped on impact, leaving only the unfinished project within. "I never really loved you, but it’s sure nice of me to pretend I have some investment in your welfare, isn’t it?!"

"I don't want your pity," her mother said, and slams the door behind her so hard the whole house shakes.

But that's hardly the end of it. Should he linger long enough, the memory immediately jumps ahead to a cold intercessory in Camp Dragonhead, dimly lit by a hearth and occupied by two people. One of them is Irhya, the other, another miqo'te woman resembling her.

"Why am I here, Shia?"

"Irhya, this isn't a social call--"

"I know what you’re going to say. I'm not going back; I'm happy with my life. And I know you're going to say I'm selfishly squandering my talent on inferior purposes, because it's not like Mom didn't tell me that enough, and--"

"Irhya. Stop prattling and listen."

She can see in her older sister's eyes that she fails to see any humor in this situation. It sobers her up quickly.

"Mom's dead. She fell ill."

"...What?" Her voice is barely above an icy whisper, features crumbling like the petals on a wilting chrysanthemum.

"Three nights ago."

Shia says... something in a few words after that; Irhya doesn't hear it.

"I hope she finally fell off that high horse of hers and hit her damn head, then," she says as she vaults out of her chair and reaches for the door handle in the interests of dragging herself, and the extent of her reaction, somewhere private instead.

Tellingly, her hand shakes.]

[Just outside of that particular mirror, Irhya appears to be thoughtfully studying another mirror with a handful of suspiciously familiar things on it; some she recognizes, some she doesn't, like a collection of anachronisms behind the glass. Perhaps if she's quick about it...]

[Considering how much Emet-Selch slept these days (or lapsed into useless unconsciousness, at any rate), being in the middle of a dream was not unfamiliar. A dream full of these mirrors was, and considering the contents of them- this was more than just his unconscious mind working through one thing or another, this was real in some way. And while he'd spent some time circling his own mirror (which of course he'd found, unmistakable to him in its design), curiosity had pulled him away, seeking out others who might be familiar to him.

And so here was Irhya's. The Ascian was almost certain it was hers, it felt right, looked right, somehow. And while he had no hesitations when it came to intruding, potentially on something quite personal (what did Ascians do but spy on others, after all?), he did take a moment to consider what he might find. He didn't know much about her, he realized; he had a sense of her personality, perhaps, but not her background. He'd never asked. And while he knew a bit of both K'rihnn and Mira, Emet-Selch wondered how this different-yet-the-same person's history would manifest. And on stepping through the mirror--

--he immediately flinches, tensing defensively on instinct as something is thrown at- through?- him. His attention snaps to to it, startled- a flowerpot?- registering belatedly that he hadn't actually been struck. Registering even more belatedly that he hadn't even been the target, of course; he was a ghostly visitor only, witnessing the past.

A loud one, full of shouting and anger: his gaze turns back to a younger Irhya arguing with... an older female relative? Her mother, perhaps. Gradually letting go of that tension, he observes. Slowly circles the room, taking in the scene from different angles. Noting expressions, gestures. Broken objects, more broken relationships.

...Not a family without its issues, it seemed. Whether Irhya's spite and resentment towards her mother(?) was justified, he couldn't say. Without context, it was hard to know how much of her fury was reasonable... but it struck him as petulant regardless. The arrogance of a child who knew best, lashing out any way she could. ...Not that the older miqo'te was exactly presenting herself in the best light either, if any of Irhya's words carried truth as well as anger. A miserable pair, made more miserable by each other, was his impression.

Mortals never did impress, with their pettiness, and Emet-Selch felt entirely justified in dismissing their spat as petty, despite not knowing a whit of background. He's still thinking on it when the scene changes, and he glances around, trying to place it. Coerthas, perhaps.

And there was Irhya again, as expected, though with another, different miqo'te approaching her. Another relative by the looks of things, though closer to her age. Moving closer as well, he continues to listen.

The reaction to the news of her mother's death- at this point, it doesn't surprise him. Arguments like he'd just witnessed were difficult to make amends for, and from the look of things it didn't seem as though any attempt had been made. And now it was too late. That she was running from both the news as well as her own feelings... it was about as expected, but he felt disappointed nonetheless.

When the vision finally fades and he finds himself standing back outside of Irhya's mirror, Emet-Selch hums to himself in thought, a look of generalized disapproval on his face. A movement out of the corner of his (working; gods, even in a dream he was half-blind--) eye has his attention flicker over to... well, how convenient, the troublesome miqo'te herself.]

So... I would say that qualifies as regret, don't you think?

[He doesn't offer any greeting nor context for his statement, as he steps closer to her, in this strange, shared dream-space.]

[She looks mildly puzzled, turning to face him right next to his own mirror.]

If you expect me to know what you mean, I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed.

[But that expression he's wearing is... more than a little unnerving. There are a number of things he could've seen to elicit a response like that, but hopefully... hopefully it wasn't what she's thinking of. She crosses her arms tightly across her chest.]

...What? What's with that face?

[Now, he could outright explain what he'd seen, clarify matters straight away... but why?]

'Twas rather a childish display. I hope you've outgrown such tantrums.

[A statement accompanied by a sigh, distinctly unimpressed.]

[Her heart clenches in her chest, and her face goes whiter than usual. Not only did he see it, or something equally as incriminating, but -- but now he's mocking her for it. The fact he doesn't confirm it just lends credence to her suspicion.

...But she can't bring herself to be truly angry about it. She exhausted that well years ago. Instead, she just looks hurt as she looks away.]

If your intention is to insult me over it, I don't want to hear it.

[Though it hadn't been his express intention to trigger that manner of reaction (did it qualify as an insult when it was just the truth? he didn't think so), it does cause him to pause, regarding her more thoughtfully.]

If you expect me to sooth your guilt over this or anything else, then you don't know me very well at all.

[Accompanied by a faint shrug- as though indifferent- yet followed up by a more curious look.]

But that hadn't been an argument out of nowhere... was your family always like this?

No, but I expected you not to be downright malicious about it, either. Silly me.

[She turns away from him and looks sourly at the floor, doesn't answer his question for a decent length of time. Truth be told, maybe she should just walk away and let him judge her as he will... it's not like she wouldn't deserve it.]

...Yeah. We argued a lot. When she was feeling good, everything was fine, but then things would just drop when her mood changed. And it was usually her and I going at it, not any of my other siblings... I guess because I was the least willing to sit there and take it.

Yes, I was an angry little shite as a kid. I'm under no illusions otherwise.

If I were trying to be malicious, you would know.

[This was merely being blunt. ...In an unnecessarily rude way, perhaps, but Emet-Selch knew what his intentions were, and that was all that mattered to him. If Irhya took his honesty another way... well, that wasn't his problem.

But he waits with something like patience for her to decide what to do: leave, or continue. When she seems to select the latter, he listens.]

Then it sounds as though you lost little of value. Or do you imagine that if you had remained behind, that you would have somehow managed to work everything out before her death?

[Somehow, he manages it without even trying, then. Her features set harder, ears pressing firm against her skull.]

...I doubt there's any other way things could've ended. But... that doesn't mean I don't wish I'd done things differently.

[Her patience wears, slowly but surely. Does he intend to mock her? To present her with those unpleasant truths she already knows full well, as if she needs the reminder? She closes up her posture and shifts as if to study the mirror in front of her, half-distractedly.]

If you have something worthwhile to contribute, just say it. I know you don't give a damn about my feelings on the matter, so come out with it and get it over with now so we don't have to bring this up ever again.

My contributions are always worthwhile, even if you lack the wit to appreciate them.

[But he frowns, regarding her more seriously. It was true that he didn't particularly care for her feelings, especially when it came to her response towards his entirely reasonable commentary on a tender part of her past. But it wasn't as though he wanted to deliberately upset her either.]

'Twas a childish display, but given what you were faced with, not unexpected. If you blame yourself for something, you should not- there's naught you could've done to mend a relationship so fundamentally broken. And one mortal is much like another, in the end... though I suppose 'tis unfortunate that you were saddled with a difficult one as a parent.

[This is not how comfort or thoughtfulness goes. Emet-Selch either seems to not realize this, or doesn't care (a bit of both, really).]

[The ears loosen, just a little.]

...Not wrong on either count, I suppose. She was not malicious, just troubled, but I was not the one who could have fixed that for her. I just wish our last conversation hadn't been that... that I could have caught her at a better moment for both of us.

I... I suppose hearing that does make me feel a little better, though.

[But somehow, she can tell it's still a cold, objective commentary coming from him, and something about that just burns her all over again. He had the opportunity to play nice, to try and make friendly with her, but he let it pass him by in favor of his usual routine.

She grabs the edges of the mirror's frame and scoffs, feeling vengeful enough to dive in anyway. Maybe she'll get something embarrassing if she's lucky.]

If your memories aren't any better, though, you'll be hearing it when I come out again.

[And she takes the plunge, not waiting for his response. Petty? Probably. Not that he can claim to be any better.]

[Irhya didn't seem entirely content with his answer, which only pulls a shrug from him. His ability to display empathy was... haphazard at best. And he was in little mood to try for anything beyond 'technically not even adequate.'

And when the miqo'te suddenly dives into his mirror, the Ascian makes a half-way disgruntled sound, considering following after... but there was no guarantee he'd end up in the same place, was there? He considers wandering off instead... but he'll probably still be about. Times probably work strangely in the mirrors.

As for the result: it's Amaurot, of course. Where else would it be?

Granted, Emet-Selch had thousands upon thousands of years spent on the broken Source (as well as various shards), so if the choices the mirror made were truly random, there should've been just as good of a chance to witness some scrap of an imitation of mortal life.

But no, the beautiful cityscape and calm atmosphere immediately marks it as Amaurot, at some time before its fall. A not wholly-unfamiliar sight, considering Irhya's visit to its recreation in the tempest- but this city is clearly on land. The sky is clear, with stars just beginning to come out. ...And as this is a memory of someone who could see them, the sky is also full of the passing of souls, from life into death. An equally beautiful, but perhaps somewhat eerie vision.

But the focus of the dream is on two individuals, one reclining in the grass, the other approaching. As with all Amaurotine, they're both incredibly tall, though with the black robes and masks, it's hard to tell much else about what they look like.]

"I heard the tidings. Congratulations, Hades...or should I say the honorable Emet-Selch of the Convocation of Fourteen?"

[That strange Amaurotine language, again. Though Irhya might recognize the tone or otherwise guess that the speaker is Hythlodaeus. But his companion- Emet-Selch, apparently, with a red mask and a hint of white hair underneath his cowl, seems none-too-pleased at this interruption. And as foreign as the language is, the voice is still clearly that of the Ascian's.

There's a familiar sort of banter between them- one cheerful, the other irritable, and it has the air of something that's occurred with regularity. And Emet-Selch continues to be rather snappish towards his friend.]

"Was there something else?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. Have you informed a certain someone of your appointment?"

"Hardly necessary. The memorandum will see to it, if the gossips in the street haven’t already. News pertaining to the Fourteen is wont to spread quickly."

"Were you to ask my opinion, I would tell you such a momentous message warrants a personal delivery. Shall I ascertain our friend’s whereabouts? It will take but a moment."

[It's not an offer that goes over well, and nor does the rest of the friendly man's words, teasing Emet-Selch for his idleness, to the point of nearly causing him to stalk off entirely. But he's called back at the last moment with an admittance that Hythlodaeus did have some specific request in mind, and wasn't just bothering him for the sake of 'congratulations' on his new title. And so they move onward- towards the Bureau of the Architect, apparently.

A flicker, as the scene changes. And before Emet-Selch is the target of his friend's 'request'- an insane firebird created by magic, accidentally rendered immortal by a passing soul having taken up residence in its body. Beautiful and maddened, it screams its fury as it continually dashes its body upon the walls of its cage- only to heal itself to full, giving it the ability to do so, again and again.

Clearly struck by the sight, Emet-Selch speaks on it.]

"Consumed by the fear of death, it thrashes blindly about. It will know only pain and suffering and inflict the same upon others. A pitiful existence."

"Such moving empathy. It's as if you wore the feathers yourself."

[And then came the request: the bird could obviously not be allowed to remain as it was, but only a powerful mage would be capable of freeing its trapped soul without causing it further distress. And of anyone on the Convocation, Emet-Selch was the strongest in this regard.

With no further argument, Emet-Selch resigns himself to his task, and- his form begins to change. Drastically, shadows twisting and billowing into something much larger, and completely unlike his previous form. But familiar: the first shape he'd taken upon his final battle with Irhya. No Zodiark staff though, as the god hadn't yet been created, of course. As the dream fades, as his work starts, the last thing that can be heard is Hythlodaeus' voice.]

"Indeed, there is no better candidate. Allow me to congratulate you again, Emet-Selch."

[Hythlodaeus' demeanor makes her smile; he must have been a steadfast friend in life. That he must still exist down there somewhere, aware of his own falsification and yet able to do nothing about it, is a dreadful irony in this case. He saved one, and entrapped another millennia later.

Perhaps he really didn't know what he had until he didn't have it anymore. But this mention of another friend... Was it a unit of three?

Her mind starts to speculate wildly as she steps out. It's hard to be disappointed when provided with such an interesting nugget, and especially so when he's still standing there as if waiting for her to interrogate him.]

Amazing how anyone would continue to try and endear themselves towards you when you're a snippy arsehole even at your best.

[What does that make her, though? She chooses not to answer that for herself.]

So, who was that third person? You and Hythlodaeus, and...?

[If she's vague about it, perhaps he'll think she actually saw them and be more forthcoming with information. If she tells him it was only a mention, he'll probably be more evasive.]

'Tis more amazing that I tolerated such nuisances.

[And there was Irhya again, and judging by her comment, she had, indeed, seen something related to Amaurot. As expected. But what?

If only Emet-Selch was the sort of person to have more than two friends. Then, Irhya's question would be easier to avoid. Not that the Ascian is actually against telling her- it wasn't as though he hadn't shared that detail with K'rihnn and Mira- but it was hard to deny the impulse to be difficult. He crosses his arms with a small shrug.]

Who do you think? Another friend.

You really do take for granted what you have until you lose it, you know.

[A stark reminder, given all that they both just witnessed. It applies as much to her as it does to him.]

If it was a friend from Amaurot, they obviously had some special significance to you. Just like Hythlodaeus. Did any of them tell you how we met him, by the way?

[He might be able to hazard a guess if he tries. Still, she keeps going, waving a hand.]

And then, of course, they were sundered just the same too, correct? Did you ever consider searching for either of their shards while you were busy putting them back together?

[The first part doesn't get a reply, only a colder stare. He's entirely aware of that. Both place and people, all of it gone, and with no hope of it ever being the same again--

All the more reason to not get attached to anything new, so there'll be nothing to feel when it's inevitably lost.]

I know you've all met Hythlodaeus, in some form. I know not exactly how, yet I remain unsurprised that of all people, he would be the one who found you.

[An irritated huff.]

No, I never tried looking for either of them after the sundering. They would remember naught, and would die, repeatedly, before me. What would be the point?

[That's not to say he never found them, of course. Though still irritated, his manner becomes a degree more withdrawn. Contained.]

Besides, neither agreed with the creation of Zodiark. And not much has changed there, has it?

It was you, actually.

[She lets that sink in for a moment before clarifying.]

There is a shade down in the massive illusion of Amaurot that carries his name. A self-aware one, no less. He sat down with us and spoke freely, as if his life wasn't a fading echo in the cosmic hallway.

[Though his frank admission about why he never sought them out is more than a little telling. She lifts her head a little to look at him wryly.]

Would you have something to lose if you did find them, half-Rejoined as they are?

Of course. I always did get caught up in details....

[He says it with a sigh. He knew his recreation of Amaurot had been too thorough... and who knows what a Hythlodaeus-with-self-awareness would've been able to tell those heroes. One more way that sentimentality had done him in.]

And didn't I just tell you...? I thought miqo'te were known for their hearing. Finding their broken husks would benefit me not at all.

[A small pause, before apparently coming to some sort of decision.]

...But that doesn't mean I never came across one of them, without searching. A soul like theirs is hard to miss, even sundered.

[Suddenly, something clicks, and brief realization passes over her face. Hythlodaeus said the same thing, didn't he? Of them. She hadn't quite understood it at the time, but now it makes sense. It explains his "high hopes" for the Warrior of Light, as well.

Having Ardbert's soul Rejoined was the last piece needed to hold that light aether long enough to spend it all on the killing blow. Would that they'd only known that from the outset, then it would have benefited him. Greatly.

She stays in melancholy thought for a few moments longer.]

But if things had panned out, it would have. That is, if one doesn't believe the attempts to be friendly were play-acted, theatrical though you are. You trusted us with the task for that reason, did you not? It had nothing to do with reputation.

[But she knows these are some wild accusations to make without backing them up. Her arms cross, fingers tightening into her sleeves.]

You yourself just admitted to it, in a measure. Those "details" appear to count for more than you want to say out loud.

[And so it slid into place. Emet-Selch glances aside for a moment, and is silent for a time. It wasn't something he could deny, but it also wasn't something he wanted to admit to either. Not to her, and not particularly to himself. His reasons for approaching that Warrior of Light had been rooted entirely in nostalgia and fragile hope, neither of which were things he wished to be conscious of.]

...You'll never be them.

[He has to get that out of the way first, turning back to Irhya, frown intact, but looking more melancholy than severe.]

But it's not to say that you have nothing in common. Resilience, for one. Yes, my overtures of friendship were genuine, and if you have complaints about my behavior, blame the skepticism of the company you keep.

[A dismissive sort of wave, as though mistrusting Ascians was an unreasonable thing.]

If anyone had a chance of convincing me of mortal worth, it would be the one bearing what's left of their soul.

[And to see if there was anything left of that person, but that's a lot harder to admit to.]

As for whether you succeeded... I wouldn't know. You haven't yet, but knowing of events is different from living through them. Not that it matters in either case.

Nor would I even try to be.

[The vehement assertion is followed by a stretch of silence.]

...I doubt it means anything to the current you, but... the one time I saw you smile sincerely was after we fought. It was also the one time I saw you standing up straight, as if that weight you carry had been lifted.

I was... relieved to see it. Maybe someday you'll understand what I mean.

If you're trying to comfort, you're worse at it than I am.

[K'rihnn had mentioned something of the same. That it was the only time he'd ever seemed to be at peace. It had disturbed Emet-Selch then, and it continues to unsettle him now.

And she was back to looking forward to him being dead, he assumed- if out of pity this time. It's a thought that has him turn away, and begin to walk off, in his slow, heavy way.]

You can keep your relief at my death to yourself. I've no use for it.

[She can't help the anger that bubbles up from her stomach, taking a few steps forward in his direction and clenches her teeth together.]

Would it really make you happier for me to say that instead? Because that's not what I meant and you know it.

How do you think that firebird felt, if it had the words to express it? Unable to be happy in life, yet fearing its own death like any living thing... do you not see the sheer irony in this?

The difference is, the bird was not a person. You are. But you keep pushing any attempts to try and help you away, keep writing them off as pity or "you just want to see me die" -- that's not what any of us want! You're afraid of letting anything good in for fear you're going to lose it later!

[He should just keep walking, he knows it. But Emet-Selch stops, snapping over his shoulder back at Irhya, fingers digging into his palms.]

What else am I meant to take from your words? If my only ease may come from death--

[But no, he knows it wasn't what Irhya meant. It was what it amounted to, though. Much like that firebird, he'd continue to dash himself against his confines, snapping at anything that approached, until someone came along strong enough to put him out of his misery.]

Do you think a few words now will convince me? That I have any interest at all in your idea of help? Good? [The word is drawn out, accompanied by a disgusted, disdainful look. Without intending to, he's turned back towards her.] So you seek entertainment with my corpse, convincing yourself that you're doing me a favor.

Everything here is already lost.

So are you already dead or not? Pick one, Hades. You don't get to be both.

[She holds her ground, unwilling to let it go this time. It's not the first argument they've had on the subject, and it probably will not be the last, but she's tired of rolling over for the sake of letting him wallow in his misery more simply because he wants to.]

You exist on a level field with the rest of us now, though you may not like it. I keep trying to reach out to you on more than a superficial level, but you keep smacking me away every time I get too close, especially when I come bearing a truth you may not want to hear. Because you're "not interested" in adapting.

Remember when I told you moons ago you need to try and make nice with the Warriors of Light, given we're all apparently in this for the long haul? This is not what I meant. I would not force my ideology on you, if that's what you're thinking, but you do need to take that stick out of your arse at some point.

[And that's a comment that gets a blacker look, a bleaker look. With ever more frequency it felt as though he veered between viewing his death as inevitable, and fighting to avoid it; in either case, the fixation on dying remained.]

Oh...? I thought I'd been quite tolerant of you all. But I suppose that's not good enough, is it? You expect my attachment, a heartfelt investment, that I should simply... forget, everything that has transpired before?

[From harsh into idle, his look growing colder with each moment.]

'Tis not as though I'm shown this level of discourtesy from all of you heroes- have you ever considered it might be an issue on your end? Does it distress your ego to hear that you're not at the center of all creation? I'm sure you've already decided how I'm supposed to be feeling... so tell me, how did you expect this to play out, in your mind?

At what point do I fall over myself in gratitude for your enlightenment, in the wisdom you've bestown upon this poor, half-dead shade of an Ascian? I'd hate to miss my cue.

You're neither half-dead nor a shade, you sod. Maybe on the inside, if you prefer, but you seem to be alive and well in front of me, so knock off the obsessive theatrics over a death you don't even know will happen to you personally yet. You have time here that you're wasting wallowing over it.

[She sucks in a breath, weaves a hand into her ponytail with the convincing facsimile of neutrality and hopes to whatever god is listening he doesn't call her nervous tic.]

Well, you're clearly feeling something, unlike what the face you're giving me says. So tell me of it, then. If the attempts at friendship were supposedly so honest, were they only honest because it suited your agenda? Here, too -- do your Bonds only exist because you can use them for other purposes, like driving Mira and I mad with misery like you yourself are?

Even if you put all the pieces back together, there's no guarantee you'd get your friends back exactly the same as they were. What will you do if, another few millennia from now, you finish the Rejoining and things are still not what you imagined?

Wasting? There's no time here to waste, and nothing worth wasting it on. Or perhaps I'm wasting it now, by giving any ear to your insults? If my grief is theatrics to you, it shouldn't surprise you that I'd spare you naught beyond it. With a reaction like this, why should I even bother?

[She was clearly agitated on some level, but it wasn't enough. Nothing would ever be enough, when he's in this sort of state, practically reveling in his own despair and fury, for all that he despises it.]

I'll never know what the resulting world would be like, thanks to your tireless efforts. Or is this one denial that I'm supposed to live under, because you find it convenient? Because it circumvents your own sins? Oh, it hasn't happened to me, yet, so you're free to avoid consequence, free to lecture on how you'd prefer me to behave.

[Which completely avoids the question of what he'd expect the resulting world to be. Of course it wouldn't be the same. It wouldn't be the same, and he wouldn't be any happier, because he'd never been happy in the first place.]

But if this Bond wearies you so, shall I break it for you? I have more than enough to sustain me. As it seems my honesty is no longer to your taste.

I thought you were planning on changing things when you got back if you carry back the knowledge with you? Or are you just resigned to it now...?

[Her eyes narrow. Now he's just being contrary for the sake of being contrary.]

Does it never tire you out to be constantly miserable? You didn't even address what I asked you, because you know what the answer is as well as I do. Though given that, I suppose I don't need one outright in the first place.

Your grief is yours, as my sins are mine. You rage at your state of being, and people die at my hands. There is nothing I can do or undo about either. I could give you the entire rundown of how your death happens in painstaking detail, plot out a way to save you that you could take back with you, and it still wouldn't make you any happier, because you're a godsdamned black hole. People try to put things in because they care, because they want to fill it -- love, friendship -- and it just gets crushed and swallowed up because you're too fixated on how much of living is pain.

[On the subject of the Bond, she hesitates. For a second, she actually does consider it, but her heart comes to a different conclusion in the end. A pang of something passes through the tether; warmer than pity, less comforting than sympathy.]

...No, leave the Bond be. I would observe you still, however things may pan out. Upwards of ten thousand years of anguish is not something I have the capacity to deal with, but perhaps some good may still come of it in the future, even if you think it a useless detail.

[Did it tire him out to be so miserable...? It's a comment that has Emet-Selch laugh- sort of. It's a short bark of a sound, bitter and completely devoid of mirth.]

Then leave me to it. You're not telling me anything I don't already know.

[It's as close to an admittance as Irhya is likely to get, even as it's accompanied by a scoff, a sharp gesture with one hand.]

And what does it say about you, throwing yourself at someone who wants no part of what you're offering...? Does it offend that self-righteousness of yours to know that this is one more thing you cannot save? I can't take anything back with me- and you would lovingly share every twitch and shudder of my demise, all so that I may be tormented in detail over that which I cannot change.

[It's an icy sort of anger, and in response to Irhya's feelings, an answering hit of pure spite is sent from his side of the tether. In general, he's doing little and less to restrain the fullness of what he's going through- grief and despair being the strongest of his emotions, poorly masked by its shell of fury.]

'Leave the Bond be' she says... as though it's your choice alone to make. Whenever I wake from this, don't be surprised if you find your observation concluded.

[She watches his gestures with an increasingly sinking feeling that reflects in the flattening of her ears, unable to meet all that with verbal response initially.]

You're spiraling out of control.

[It's all she can say, her initial will to stand up to him fading. Talking is achieving nothing but a deepened sense of despair -- but what more can she do? Won't leaving him be do much the same?]

Can you tolerate being alone, then? Are you just going to burn all your bridges in a fit? Will that make you happy if there's nothing left?

Please don't let it consume you, Hades.

[The flattening of ears gets a flicker of satisfaction- cold, detached, meager. Had he ever been in control to start? It wasn't as though all of this ever lay very far beneath the surface.]

It's not a matter of toleration.

[Or of happiness, or of anything else outside of his own misery. But he's also getting the sense that there's not much more they can say to one another- as though this conversation could somehow devolve even further. And so he steps away again.]

I will remain alone, regardless.

a forgotten shadow permeates

for Emet-Selch

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