074 » tell that man to ease up

[meteorum]

[their journey isn't anywhere near done — they have a lightwarden to slay on the morrow, when they enter the qitana ravel at long last — but for now, right now, it feels like everything is going right for once. they've fought off the eulmorans, at least for the moment. those blessed that were poisoned in the conflict are now cured. y'shtola is alive. y'shtola is alive.

he'd never admit it out loud, but it's a weight off aster's heart to know that the scions are back together again. it was lonely, in a way, without them. together, they're a cohesive unit, an organization, no longer splintered at different corners of the world. it's not a family reunion just yet, aster knows; krile and tataru and the others are still on the source, waiting for them in the rising stones, and time apart has driven wedges between individual scions that he never expected. (were thancred and y'shtola always so distant with one another, or had he just been blind to it all this time? they lost something when minfilia left them, aster muses — a kind of glue, a central axis, someone to welcome them home.)

even so, this is a victory. he won't let anyone make it anything less.]

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[meteorum]

[he should be asleep. they'd all agreed to take an evening's rest before heading out to slay the lightwarden of rak'tika greatwood, and he should be asleep, but he feels too charged to settle down now. he's giddy. he's happy. he hasn't felt like this in a long time. the leaden weight in his bones almost seems like nothing as he steps out into the eternal dawn.

the viis have tents and huts to shelter them from the primordial light, but they have the boughs of the trees above them before that. rak'tika greatwood is likely one of the darkest area aboveground to be found on the source, and aster feels thankful for it, for the shadows that cross his face as he stares up at the dappled light streaming through the leaves overhead. he never thought darkness could feel so invigorating. maybe runar and his people are on to something.

tomorrow, they will slay the lightwarden, and bring stars to this stretch of sky.

aster looks at his palm, then closes it into a fist, thinking of the weight of his blade, and — (of ardbert, cursed to forever bear his bloodied axe) — the heft of his old labrys in the days when he considered himself no warrior of light, but a simple warrior among many, just another adventurer...]

...It will be fine.

[aster says this out loud to himself, in the stillness of the dark forest. then he closes his eyes, and repeats it, as though he can make it real by the strength of his faith alone.]

It will all be fine.

[wholeness]

[He should be asleep.

Emet-Selch thinks it with every single sense of a lemon rind: the sour, the bitter, its texture, and the mistiness of lemon zest that threatens to make him sneeze. His lips twist. His tongue protests. A muscle works at the side of his neck when he clenches his jaw past mouth-watering disgust. Yes, like a lemon, he doesn't want to swallow any of this. As it turns out, the zest of life only serves to inconvenience him. Time and time and time again...

Blast this place, and damn it, too. Curse this place and do it thoroughly this time, leaving no pocket of attempted salvation to saddle the longest of long-suffering with searing discomfort as he merely goes about his business. (And good business it is!) The Light's steady harm began at Emet-Selch's temples just as soon as he arrived here in the First, and it has since smithed itself into a meat cleaver, trying valiantly to butcher into his skull. It hurts, in other words. He has a headache, in other words. All things considered, he has been agreeable beyond any measure of grace these mortals could hope to scrape together under such duress. But they do insist on fussing, don't they! It is the most despicable thing about youth, the fussiness, and these little fleas each return unto the dust long before they have grown past the whinging time of infancy.

...He should be asleep. The curtain could fall on the dramatics and the theater in him could go quiet, if he were. Emet-Selch owes this world no gratitude, but he can appreciate the boon of the Greatwood for what it is: stillness. Dark. A reprieve, and one whose hammock he would gladly pitch himself into. Yet here he is, slouching about, refusing himself the kindness of a well-earned nap at least.

Instead, he's peering at a color he does not particularly care for. No, he doesn't like the sight of it. A speck of dust which agitates the eye; a blister on the heel. Emet-Selch is tired of being uncomfortable.

Aster speaks, and Emet-Selch's brow quirks when the voice wrenches him out of a foul focus. Ah, yes. Of course. The irritating color, the soul--it's attached to a body.]

Oh, I'm convinced well enough of that, but thank-you for the trumpet call. Rest assured I am rallied to your cause... or close enough to it. [It's not that he can't help the cheek. He could help it if he wished. He simply does not wish.

What he does do is round the corner of a close by tree trunk, emerging gradually--vague then vivid--as if from sleep. (He should be sleeping.)]

Unless... your rousing and resounding pep are meant for your own ears? In which case, my, my, sharing the words of a commander with yourself as the infantry--you really do stand in for full armies.

[He does have a way of delivering appraisal like a lapidarist whose favored quarries have been mined barren. Well, here he is in all his splendor: dark-eyed, crooked, and with his hands spread like an honest man.]

take your time if you're enjoying the new patch!

[meteorum]

[aster turns with the dangerous innocence of a bear — a kind of dopey oafishness about him, pure curiosity, though there is a sort of graceful lethality to his movements, and tension turns him into a predator before he spots who has addressed him, then relaxes. it isn't that he trusts the person addressing him, of course, but the ascian currently sporting the guise of solus zos galvus has made his point: if he is going to kill aster, it will not be like this, in the middle of the forest, without the world to witness it.]

Emet-Selch.

[aster ignores his remarks. all of them. the wit, the sarcasm — the elaborate jest and the faint sense of mockery dripping from its innards. like a lemon, aster thinks, unbidden. if you squeezed him, his acids would burn into your skin.

nevertheless, the warrior tries not to show his interest or his suspicion. there can be no denying that emet-selch has done them all a favor — an incredible favor, a massive boon — and there is a part of aster that is still grateful enough for y'shtola's safe return that he could kiss the former emperor of garlemald, if they would not both immediately react with horror and disgust. (it's the jowls that make him think, absurdly, of seizing the man's face between both hands. the doughy, fleshy cheeks. zenos had the same roundness to his face, but varis had a harder look to him, a squareness.) even so, he has not quite earned the privilege of trust.

that barest quirk of aster's lips might be a smile, but it does not manifest as one.]

Here I almost thought you'd left us.

[his tone is carefully neutral. there is no joy in it, though he feels neither dismay nor disappointment. aster's simple need is to get the measure of the man before making any sudden movements — or overtures towards alliance.]

same to youuuuu

[wholeness]

[Thousands upon thousands of times--beyond measure, beyond scope--Emet-Selch has thought, Oh, to be young, and he has thought it with derision. With not just the acid, but the lemon seeds caught in his throat as well. Now, in seeing Aster's quick and clueless whirl, Emet-Selch does think of youth... but not with quite so much rancor. Not with sharp citrus seeping into the nick. He could almost be as a lemon grove, with the growth of trees, the rustling of leaves...

Guileless. That is the way Aster looked. He was wholly earnest in both his ignorance and power. Oh, Emet-Selch does resent the growth of trees, for he must necessarily acknowledge the sprout and the seed that came before. But, in the interest of being honest... he cannot remember how his face may have looked when it was the face of a guileless young man.

Even in his triumph, he won't get everything back. While he will see the return of his brethren, the man he was before these thousands of years can never be resurrected.

Emet-Selch manages not to grimace.

Instead, he stares at Aster (never guileless, with the weathered old gold of his eyes) and then he lays his hand over his heart, as if struck there. The gesture--heartfelt, says the language of his limbs--is no more and no less genuine than anything else he has said and done since their acquaintance.] As assumptions go, not the worst it could well be! But, no, no. I'll tell you this for any peace of mind which you might deign to accept: that isn't how I would go about forging a relationship. [He considers this with a wry draw of his brow before dropping his hand back to his side. Petulant, he shrugs one shoulder, already so out of alignment.] Not a good one, anyway.

[He dips his head down, just a little. Now he can look at Aster from a keener angle, again like the lapidarist.]

You do seem pleased. Well, good. It's as much as I wished to achieve.

[meteorum]

I am indeed.

[as he stands caught in the intensity of emet-selch's golden gaze, aster does not feel like a sparkling gemstone, or even a raw piece of stone that might yet be tumbled into something beautiful. he feels, instead, like a weathered urn, the kind that is squinted at by ul'dahn merchants and declared either worthless or good for use as a chamber pot at the very least. judgment, he realizes after a moment — he is anticipating a kind of judgment.]

And I — [he breaks off, briefly; it's a strange thought to have about an ascian, one that settles oddly in his stomach, although that might just be the fish dinner cymet whipped up] — should thank you for it.

[he should. and he would, if emet-selch were just another man, and not a paragon in the body of a man long dead. but aster doesn't, not yet. instead, he simply meets emet-selch's gaze and tips his head ever so slightly to the side, as if they are characters in a comedian's routine, and he has just let slip some sort of inside joke.]

Should I not?